The Unknown Industrial Prisoner (44 page)

Why are they doing this to him? Hadn't he had the right attitude all along? Suck to the company, rubbish the workers. Hadn't he always told the mob the company was reasonable, they'll look after us? Did they care so little that a man had the right attitude? He was ready to forsake all—all his mates—for the company. Was this his reward? Demoted. A throwout.

His hopes died.

He went for a pee. There was purple everywhere. He couldn't do it. Instead he went out into the pipe-track, like a tramp in a ditch. Just as if he'd been told not to pee with the mob.

 

LITTLE WOODEN BLOCKS And there was the computer. Much of the stock and accounting work was already handed over to the machines. The company was leaving it until the last moment to announce its redundancy plans and the clerks' nerves broke first. Without benefit of Union advice, a party of them climbed the stairs to ask the Whispering Baritone where they stood. They imagined that if they didn't call in the Union, Puroil would think better of them.

They knocked at the Baritone's door as he, Luxaflex and the Garfish were messing around with little wooden blocks of different colours, like a set of children's numbering rods. They were working on the problem of where to put the clerks so they wouldn't get in the way of the machines. Pixie hadn't been invited: he was on the list for re-training. The Garfish answered the knock, being the junior of the three. He closed the door and reported.

‘Clerical bodies. About redundancy rumours.'

The Baritone nodded. Clerks. The new solidarity. How easily he remembered their reluctant determination, their almost convinced defiance. And the dawn of gratification in their eyes when the company backed down in face of full Union membership. Their new confidence. They started to call him the Whispering Baritone openly and with louder voices.

‘Hold still,' said the Whispering Baritone to his helpers. ‘Don't say anything. I want to talk to the poor devils. They'll stay still if we don't alarm them. Come in,' he invited, and the white shirts choked the doorway, gaping at the coloured blocks. No one wanted to be first to speak, the leaders always got the worst punishment.

‘Now, ladies and gents, don't be afraid. This has been coming a long while. Our way of life can't last for ever. We're working on the problem right now.' He beamed at the little wooden blocks, then back at the shirts. ‘I can't pretend to know what's in your minds when you see us here planning your future. It must be a mystery to you, eh? To see top company executives playing with bits and pieces, enjoying themselves working out ways to save the company money; you probably think we're going to get the money we save on your salaries, but that's not it at all. We won't get a penny more. It's not for us, it's for progress. We can't hold progress off any longer. We'd like to keep you on, but your skills are simply not needed. The lower reaches of management are on the way out—that's a fact of modern life.' His tic seemed to be better, his neck didn't twitch, he was completely at ease. All he needed to heal his body was the restoration of the power he always knew should be his.

‘We welcome the day when the machines take over the whole management function; no one will be more pleased than we will when he can hand over our desks to the programmers. Redundancy is a disease and its spreads. We'll suffer, too, but it's a historical fact that you must suffer first. I know we could afford to keep you on, but what would the shareholders say? They demand the business be run efficiently. Maybe we'll replace shareholders with machines some day, eh?' That was a funny one. He gave it the laugh it deserved.

‘Never forget. We've nothing to fear but fear itself! The change will be gradual. So work hard and maybe you can avoid being the first to go. Be obedient and do your best for Puroil and you can rest assured only the dead wood will go first. Gradually, that's the key word. You won't feel it. Re-training.'

Who would train them or where they could possibly be fitted in, he didn't know or care. A purely academic question.

With these words the Second Industrial Revolution caught up with his panicky audience. At that moment a bulletin was on its way to the official leaders of this rabble, containing the first redundant classifications. The warmth and monotony of work and home and work and home again had never seemed so desirable.

The top people watched silently as the bottom people shuffled silently out. They would forget their solidarity now and work like slaves to be the last to go. Fear, like a monstrous sore planted by a rabbit exterminator, stood out hard and crusted on their faces.

 

THE MAN WITH THE POWER High in a corner of the Termitary a man in a small office with a commanding view of several car parks and fat warehouses took a paper from a document wallet, drew a line through some typed words and added some words of his own.

‘Delete Zone 5, Insert Area Blue.'

In houses and pubs for miles around, and down on the job for the twenty-one days' detention of the twenty-eight, something went out of the lives of the male prisoners and their domestic prisoners—women and children who waited for them to bring home the means of subsistence. Even their domestic animals—the prisoners' prisoners—suffered. Their golf club had no name, their common bond was in doubt. Men who thought of themselves as natural-born Zone 5 men became suddenly men with no name. In time the wound made by this man's pen would heal and when they all felt themselves born-and-bred Area Blue men they would forget, they would huddle together in the warmth of Area Blue-ness; but for the present they were unsettled, they were savage to one another, they kicked their cats and dogs and withheld their dependants' food money a little longer.

 

THE WANDERING JEW ADDRESSES HIS EXECUTIVES ‘What Puroil needs right now is a good dose of tough-mindedness. If we are going to hold our own in this uneasy world we will have to sharpen our ability to face hard facts and act with intelligence and courage.

‘In the years since the great depression, a fuzziness has crept into our thinking. Australian business has fallen prey to a cult of human relations that worries excessively about people's feelings. The cult has come between us and our old-fashioned ability to get a job done. We think less about how to do a good job than about how to be a good fellow. Frequently, business failure can be laid directly on the doorstep of human relations. I have seen executives exhibit such sentimentality and tender-mindedness when they needed hard-headedness, that businesses have had to close down, putting a lot of people out of work.

‘Throughout his history, man the animal has been trying to achieve an intellectual and moral veneer. I believe that a large part of the job of education must be to toughen and thicken this veneer, not to encourage people to crack it and peel it off, as popular self-centred Freudian psychologists would have us do. I suspect that some of the principal causes of increasing mental disease lie in morbid introspection, lack of strong moral considerations, and leisure that we have not yet learned how to use.

‘Australia cannot afford the pampering luxury of human relations. The Marxists are tougher-minded than we are. Unless we can restore our toughness and our ability to get a job done, while suspending a little of our concern with human dignity, time will run out on us.'

The executives still sat. What had the Wandering Jew meant? No one wanted to be first to speak in case he said something that exposed his flanks or vulnerable underparts to attack from his brethren. For a distressing number of minutes nobody moved.

It would have been an error to be first to go. Like disagreement. Argument. Disloyalty. Rebellion. Subversion. The Python made a sudden movement and an engineering man, thinking he was rising, almost got to his feet, but saw his mistake in time. At length, like the suspicious and primitive warriors they were, all sat forward on the edge of their seats and after much feinting, rose together. Honour was satisfied and no one had his neck stuck out. They separated in silence.

 

THE WILL OF THE PEOPLE At the Trades Hall the prisoners obediently sat on thick timber chairs polished a shiny brown by the bottoms of countless thousands of toilers. They looked placid now. Not like yesterday. They had stopped work at midnight after a stormy meeting the day before. Somehow they got the bit between their teeth and men who never even raised their voices to a foreman stood blustering and yelling and demanding that clauses be removed from the company's award offer. The men's application was rough, ill-typed and sort of doggy: the company's answer was well set out, neat, official-looking. An impartial observer would have no hesitation in predicting a triumph for the company. The package was better.

Perhaps the militancy of the day before had been a last skirmish before the surrender, the final defiance after the fright of the Manager's Winge. The Federal Secretary of the Union was not sure which way they'd jump today. Whatever happened, the Union couldn't afford stoppages that lasted any length of time. Fines of a thousand dollars a day would mop up Union funds in a few weeks. The executive wanted to keep the peace rather than look too closely at grievances. They'd never even been to the plant to look at it. They lived off prisoners' wages just as industry did. Their organization was the same pyramidal hierarchy as Puroil's.

‘Puroil is busy with their computer system and they want to get everything squared away, preferably in round figures, before the bulk of their work goes on the machines. They haven't shifted an inch from their proposals, that's what I'm here to tell you. The overtime ban must go and the company's draft award be accepted. The Brown Snake, when we told him of your stand, said the challenge of a twenty-four-hour stoppage is accepted. But, he said—
BUT
! and this I must emphasize to you all. The company would have listened without a stoppage.' He paused impressively.

There was no answering buzz of surprise or complaint or rebuttal. The men went on breathing, smoke continued to pour from their cigarettes, upwards, to form a solid blanket of incense over all. It was ridiculous. Two hundred and fifty men pulling in two hundred and fifty different directions—there was no resultant that made sense. A small group, three or four men on each shift, could have whipped them into shape and told them what to want.

‘Some despots are successful—this you must understand. Fighting does not always bring victory. National Steel, now. They did no good, brothers. After a strike of three weeks they came back with three dollars less. Therefore, I recommend you accept the company's proposal. But if you do not, then rest assured, you have the Union behind you.' He didn't say which way it would be facing.

He sat down, but because of certain lies he had been caught out in in previous negotiations, got no cheers.

A white-headed man, small and clerkly, who had been taking a backseat, prepared to speak to the docile workers. But the Glass Canoe had the wind in his tail. He had nothing to lose now. There was no stopping him. He challenged the Advocate.

‘Who's he? Is he a lawyer? How do we know he'll represent us when he leaves here?'

They didn't. No one knew what he said to the management under the weight of their hospitality. The slap-up dinners and the booze put on for inspectors of boilers and equipment were fresh in the prisoners' minds. The Chairman answered with dignity.

‘It's true he's not a lawyer.'

‘What are ya?' bellowed the Glass Canoe.

‘I'm an economist,' said the Advocate redly.

‘He's a Bachelor of Economics,' supplied the Chairman, grandly.

‘I'm a bachelor, too, now me wife's gone!' the Glass Canoe roared. He sat down. There was hubbub. The Glass Canoe started to weep. His own reference to his beloved OG had hit him hard. Now she was dead he realized he loved her deeply. She had never liked him calling her OG, even though he protested the letters stood for Old Girl. He was lying, of course: actually they stood for Officers' Groundsheet. He heard some stories about her once dating back to her wartime service in the Women's Auxiliary and mostly believed them.

The tears dropped from his eyes, but there were no encouraging pats for him or rough male voices shyly saying, ‘Cheer up.' He was too dangerous and unpredictable a man to be pitied. No one had even let on they knew his wife died.

‘Our main concern now is to decide whether or not to go to Arbitration, bearing in mind the delays in getting a hearing and the money we lose while we're waiting. Now, the original judge is sick—judges get sick—and we have been left with a new judge. He's a friend of mine, I've known him for years, but even he will not sympathize with what you have down here on paper as your demands.'

He cleared his throat and put on his sternest look.

‘No judge will give you less than the company offers.'

The chairman stood. ‘Do you want me to leave the chair to move or from here?'

A general grunt signified the depth of the men's feelings.

‘Very well, then, from the chair. Yesterday we threw their award out completely, but whatever the reasons we give for the stoppage, I move we accept the company's latest decision on the consent award. I know we value our right to say as we like and we've said it. But there's nowhere we can go from here.'

It was as quiet as that. And still the men hadn't said a word. Except for the twenty who seconded the motion. The men on the platform felt easier.

The Glass Canoe stood, he was a different man. This mob was weak as piss. ‘I'm for it, chaps. We tried to squeeze the lemon and this is all the juice we got. I'd like to say about yesterday's meeting, I was an observer—I admit that—I had no intention of voting no-confidence in the delegates, so I hope there's no misunderstanding there.' This confession meant nothing to the crowd: they didn't know he'd tried to rubbish his own delegates to get back into favour with Puroil. ‘Well, no one can say we didn't try. Anyone who speaks against this is a fool. The money's still good.' They worked one day more in each twenty-eight than the law provided, and were paid penalty rates for this day, but they persisted in thinking of this money as simply part of their normal pay, rather than money for extra time.