Down in the truck yard
by Polly

Entry in The Guardian short story competition

* * *

It was one of those scorching hot days in late March, when I was 
transferred from the boiler-shop to work in the "truck yard", so called 
because it was there that all kind of rail vehicles were repaired, from 
passenger coaches to the smallest four wheeled freight wagons.

With the temperature hovering around 40 degrees, I lugged my black wooden 
tool box on my shoulder, the intense heat made the shimmering air visible 
like water running over a window pane.

I dropped my box rather carelessly on the concrete outside the charge 
hands' office. Going in, I handed my timesheets to the man sitting at a 
small desk under the stairway that led up to the foreman's office.

This cramped space is what passed for an office for two chargehands sitting 
opposite each other at what was a really battered old piece of office 
furniture.

I would later reflect, with not a little surprise, at the number of my 
workmates who coveted the opportunity to sit at that desk even for a half 
day's relieving whenever the chargehand was away.

The man at the desk looked up with an expression of resigned acceptance of 
the heat.

"Hello!", he said, picking up my timesheets. "I had a phone call to say you 
were coming. I'm George Churcher."

We shook hands firmly.

"Have you got your tally medal and backplate?"

I reached into my pocket and gave him the two metal objects.

"I'll show you where the tally board is and then I will introduce you to 
the foreman and the other boilermakers you will be working with."

He opened the tally board and pointed to where my backplate would go.

"Number 945, third from the left on the top row", he said. "When you knock 
off at lunch time and at night, line up in roughly numerical order. That 
way everyone gets away quicker. You will probably have to shove Freddy 
Kilpatrick out of the way. He's been third in line until now."

I met the foreman and then walked around the yard, where George introduced 
me to the other boilermakers in the gang.

"This is `Polly'", he said to each one in turn, a nickname, he informed me, 
was mine exclusively, and which subsequently became shortened to "Pol".

"This is Fred Kilpatrick", Churcher said. "Fred meet Polly. He's going to 
work with you for the time being, so show him where the stores are and 
where the Oxy gear is kept."

With that he went back to his sweat box of an office, with a parting remark 
over his shoulder, "Oh! If you want anything, come in the office and I'll 
write you out an order".

"I have heard about you from Stan White, the steward in the fabrication 
shops", Freddy Kilpatrick said.

"He covers the truck yard, and I am a sort of unofficial deputy, but it's 
not a very satisfactory arrangement. We could do with our own delegate. We 
have 35 tradesmen working here.

"Stan tells me that you are active in the union and that you are not afraid 
to speak your mind. Would you be interested in taking on the delegate's 
job?"

"Christ", I thought, "that's a bit straight from the shoulder!"

"Give me a week or two to think about it, Fred", I said. "When I am more 
familiar with the men here and then only on condition that you take on the 
deputy's job on a regular basis."

"All right", he said, "I'll give it a bit of thought, too. In the meantime 
I'll do a bit of organising amongst the blokes."

He was as good as his word and after only two weeks, in which time I got to 
know my fellow welders and boilermakers, a meeting was called and I was 
elected as shop steward, much I suspect to the relief of Stan White who 
informed me that I was now also a delegate to the Workshops' Committee. 
Fred was elected as my deputy.

"Polly", said Freddy Kilpatrick one day, "do you think you could do 
something about the overtime?"

"Why, Fred?", I asked.

"Well, it's not fairly shared. There's a favoured few getting every 
Saturday and others get none."

"Well, to be honest, Fred, I'm not in favour of working overtime. I think a 
man should earn enough to buy a home, raise and educate his children, enjoy 
a decent holiday and a few luxuries, without overtime."

"That's true", he said, "but some people do need the extra money at certain 
times and I know that some of our brothers who need it most are not getting 
much overtime at all."

"All right, Fred, we'll call a meeting to discuss the matter, but first we 
must do a bit of organising and include the mates*, too, so that the whole 
gang is covered."

The meeting was convened and straight away there was opposition to the 
mates being present. Someone said:

"This is a union meeting and they should not be here."

"On the contrary", I said. "This is an issue that affects everyone in the 
gang."

Fred had organised support for the mates to be present, among the blokes 
who were on the outer as far as overtime was concerned, so we had a quick 
vote and it was agreed that they should remain and also have the right to 
vote.

I went to the meeting well prepared, with a suggestion for a rostered 
system, that would give everyone a fair share of the available overtime.

However, the favoured few and some right-wingers opposed a roster system 
and moved for "one in, all in", which was carried, and I had to go and tell 
the foreman of the men's decision.

The foreman flatly refused to accept any interference with overtime, saying 
it was his prerogative to choose the best tradesmen for the job.

I pointed out to him that we all did the same work all the week, as was 
done on a Saturday, but to no avail.

A stalemate existed, for six weeks. No overtime. Then suddenly a couple of 
the right-wingers came to speak to me on the quiet.

"Polly, do you think we could have a meeting to discuss the overtime roster 
properly this time?"

So a meeting was convened and Freddy Kilpatrick said:

"Give me the resolution on the roster. I'll put it forward and I have got 
someone to second it."

I didn't have to say a word. With a couple of amendments that guaranteed 
that everyone would get their turn if they missed out because of sickness 
or family problems, the roster was actually improved and was carried 
unanimously.

When I placed the whole written out roster on the foreman's desk, he said 
that he had come to see it was a good idea. He could see that it was a good 
idea. He could see that it was fair to everyone. He would inform management 
that he was going to introduce the roster.

I didn't say anything, but I thought a lot, because he had not been getting 
any overtime either. There had to be some men working for him to be there.

Oddly enough, after the roster was adopted, everyone worked every Saturday 
for about seven years straight, including me. I had started building a 
house and I found that I too needed the extra money.

The truck yard was the first section to adopt a roster, and the blokes used 
to boast about that, after a similar roster system spread throughout the 
whole workshops.

By this time, I had long since taken my place as a delegate on the 
Workshops Committee. Here it was I met Dick Neville, the secretary. He said 
to me on one occasion:

"You have got things pretty well organised, down in the truck yard. When I 
was being attacked by the management last year, you were able to organise 
the whole yard to stop work for half a day in protest. That really shook 
the management and they backed off. Yours was the only section to do that."

"Yes, well, I have a good mate called Fred Kilpatrick", I said. "He helps 
to get the fellows organised and he gives me a lot of support and he's all 
for the Works Committee, too."

Dick said:

"I've listened to you. When there is a battle with the right-wingers on the 
Committee, you always argue for strong militant action.

"This might surprise you, but I would like to nominate you for membership 
of the Communist Party. I think the Party could help to develop your 
ideas."

So it was, after being accepted, I became a Communist, joining 16 others in 
the workshops branch.

It soon became known among my workmates that I was a Communist. However, 
much to my regret, Freddy Kilpatrick asked me if it was true that I had 
joined the Communist Party.

"Yes", I said.

"Well, then, in that case I no longer support you and I can no longer be 
your deputy as shop steward."

We were not enemies, but from that time on he never came to another 
meeting, although he never went against any decision taken. He just 
followed his workmates quietly.

* * *

*The tradesmen were in one union and the "mates" (tradesmen's assistants) 
were in a different union.

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