All The Nice Girls (18 page)

‘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!’

‘How shall I allocate them sir?’

‘Dagwood, you
are
being solid this morning! Out of a hat of course! ‘

‘Thank you very much, sir.’

Dagwood took down two large tomes of Admiralty Fleet Orders (which in the matter of courses corresponded to the Sibylline Books) and went to work. Dagwood had always suspected that the Navy offered a wide variety of courses but he had never realised their scope. It seemed that there was nothing, from nuclear technology to wall-papering, on which the Navy were not prepared to run courses. Dagwood summoned the ship’s company.

‘I’ve got a lot of courses here,’ he said, ‘which you’re going to do as long as the strike lasts. Just so there’s no dripping about who goes on what course, we’re going to draw for them. I’ve written them all on a slip of paper and put them in my hat. I want you to draw in turn. You first, Chief E.R.A.’

There were enough courses for at least two each, and more to come if necessary. The Chief E.R.A. drew ‘Guided Weapons Acquaintance Course’ and ‘Basketball Coaching.’ The Chief Stoker was rewarded by ‘Survival at Sea’ and ‘Boot Repairing and Leatherwork.’ The Electrical Artificer’s selection was equally catholic: ‘Boiler-brick Fastening’ and ‘Helicopter Direction.’ The others drew from the hat in succession, Leading Seaman Gorbles a course where he volunteered for immersion in icy water, and an Outward Bound up Ben Nevis; Leading Stoker Drew, ‘Mine Counter-Measures’ and ‘Hockey Umpiring,’ and Leading Seaman Miles, the torpedoman, ‘Paint Application’ and ‘Moral Leadership.’ The most junior ratings had by no means drawn the most elementary courses. Ferguson, the Chief Stoker’s storekeeper, faced ‘Jam Testing’ and an Arabic interpreter’s course. Stoker Gotobed looked forward to ‘Instructional Technique’ and ‘Gyro-Compass Maintenance,’ while Able Seaman Quickly’s programme was ‘Oxy-Acetylene Welding and ‘Meat-telling.’

‘What do I tell it?’ he asked.

‘Very very funny, Quickly,’ said Ollie. ‘Let me tell you the meat-telling course is normally reserved for very senior supply officers. Nothing less than Commanders or Captains. But you’ve been specially chosen from a host of applicants so you’d better like it.’

Able Seaman Quickly retired, making what Dagwood called mutinous ‘Rhubarb rhubarb’ noises.

However, Dagwood’s miscellaneous selection of courses proved to be only a partial solution. Many courses only lasted a few days, some had waiting lists, and others were not due to begin for some weeks. Dagwood and Ollie were still left with a pool of spare sailors on their hands. Ollie might, as a last resort, have asked for them to be returned to spare crew but once there they might never return and besides the strike might end at any time and the subsequent upheaval would have caused more trouble than ever. As time went by, and sailors began to return from courses, Dagwood and Ollie began to have the most widely read, broadly instructed, variously talented, but still the most idle ship’s company in the Submarine Service. It was Mr Tybalt who proposed another solution.

‘Why don’t you have a look and see how the other half lives?’ he said. ‘You’ve got a city of more than half a million people here. Why don’t you and your sailors take the opportunity to find out how they make their livings? I know a few people who run businesses here and one or two local blokes like the Chief Constable. Shall I see if I can fix up a few visits for you?’

‘That sounds a splendid idea, sir,’ said Dagwood.

‘I’ll see what I can do. I’ll check with The Bodger but I expect you’ll have to go in uniform. There’s the recruiting angle to think of. You never know, there might be some Oozemothians soft-headed enough to be thinking of joining the Navy. You and your merry men might just tip the balance. Though which
way
, I wouldn’t care to forecast.’

Dagwood broached the idea to Ollie.

‘I don’t think I’ll join in,’ Ollie said. ‘I’m going to dig my garden.’

‘How did you find that little house, Ollie, I’ve always meant to ask you.’

‘I didn’t find it. Daphne told me about it. I mentioned that I was looking for somewhere and she told me about this place. Alice and I went to look at it and it was just the job.’

‘There can’t be much going on in this town that Daphne doesn’t know about.’

While Ollie dug his garden, Dagwood and the sailors embarked upon a comprehensive tour of Oozemouth, sponsored by Mr Tybalt, which probably gave them a more intimate knowledge of the city than many of its citizens possessed. They visited breweries, sewage farms, steel-rolling mills, leather tanneries, textile mills and power stations. They were shown round the printing presses of the ‘Oozemouth Echo,’ the totalisator at Oozemouth race course, the operations room at AA headquarters and the finger-print department of the local C.I.D. Dagwood was surprised and touched by the warmth of their reception everywhere.

‘I must say people just couldn’t be kinder,’ he told The Bodger and Mr Tybalt. ‘They fall over backwards to give the sailors a good time. Did you know that the ‘Echo’ took the sailors out to that road-house on the bypass last week and bought them beer and sandwiches all night? They had quite a run ashore, judging by reports.’

‘It’s not very surprising,’ said The Bodger. ‘For some reason, the people of this country are very fond of their Navy. It must be a case where ignorance is bliss but they get all sentimental about it. They like to see sailors about the place. It reminds them they’ve got a Navy. They see a sailor and it bucks them up. They square their shoulders and go on their way rejoicing, singing snatches of “Hearts of Oak.” Some of them even try and grow beards.’

‘There is also a sordid, commercial aspect to it,’ said Mr Tybalt, ‘particularly where you personally are concerned, Dagwood. Why do you think you’re welcomed everywhere, or nearly everywhere? Have you ever stopped to think why nine-tenths of the managing directors in this country will roll out the red carpet for any naval officer, no matter how junior? It’s not because of your frank, boyish good looks, your clear blue eyes, or your casual charming manner, let me hasten to disillusion you. It’s not who you are, laddie, it’s who you might become. They don’t know who you’re going to be when you grow up. You might be a pleasant, fairly nondescript sort of chap now but one day you might be in a position to place a very valuable Admiralty contract and from what I know of him the average naval officer is more than likely to place a socking great Admiralty contract with one particular firm just because they gave him a slap-up dinner and floorshow when he was a sub-lieutenant! ‘

‘You’re a cynical bastard, Frank,’ said The Bodger.

‘Cynical nothing! It’s time you fellows learned the facts of life! You’ll find the small minority of firms who won’t roll out the red carpet for you are those who have all the Admiralty contracts they need already. By the way, how are you getting on with the local talent, Dagwood?’

Dagwood looked pensive, while The Bodger and Mr Tybalt watched his face closely. ‘Oh so-so,’ he said, off-handedly.

‘When’s your visit to the ball-bearing factory?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Mind how you go there. Always stay in the middle of the room. Don’t let them lure you into corners.’

‘This sounds interesting, Frank,’ said The Bodger.

‘Interesting isn’t the word. I went there once and it was what I would call a traumatic experience. I reckon it’s left me psychologically scarred for life.’

‘Do you mind if I come with you tomorrow, Dagwood?’ said The Bodger.

‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ said Mr Tybalt.

In spite of Mr Tybalt’s warning, the visit to the ball-bearing factory began quietly enough. The Bodger, Dagwood and the small party of sailors were shown the raw material for the balls - coils of steel wire - being chopped into small cylinders. They watched the rough wire cylinders being forge-stamped, ground, smoothed and polished into shining round balls. They saw the balls being graded for size and truth. It all seemed innocent enough.