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Authors: John Bemrose
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hand reached up to place a loaded bobbin on a spike or a face drifted briefly in a distant aisle. But the executives from Intertex might well have had the impression that the machines were running themselves.
Gordie was not doing well. Sweat poured off his high, bony forehead, dripped off his nose into his plaid tie with its red ensign clip. He had been all right describing the overall operations of the mill, but when it came to specific machines and routines, he was out of his depth. And Prince knew it. The executive was watching him coldly now, snapping questions at him like pucks. And when Gordie managed to send back a coherent answer, Prince chopped another at him mercilessly. Gordie — he was the only one of the party wearinga jacket — mopped compulsively at his face and repeated, “Right, right” over and over.
It was a display of cruelty on Prince’s part, for by now the executive wasn’t even giving Gordie time to answer. The other men stirred uneasily, averting their eyes.
Finally a question came that Gordie seemed not to hear. The little man stood with an odd half-smile on his wet face, gazing at a place below him as if at his own impending doom. He half-seemed to welcome it.
“Sorry,” he said, looking up.
Alf said quietly, “Mr. Prince wants to know how we handle rush orders.”
Prince said, “Maybe you could tell us, Alf. I think it’s time we heard from the man on the floor.” Prince’s gaze, in all its remorselessly shining insistence, had swung to him. The others, too, looked at Alf, perhaps with a touch of hope, like a crowd looking at a new challenger, a new victim.
Alf told them about rush orders. Remembering how irritated Prince had seemed with Gordie’s meandering, he kept his answer short and to the point, and when he had finished, Prince had another question ready and he answered that too, snapping it back as efficiently as he could. Prince glowed. He cast a knowing glance at the others, as if to say, There, that’s what we want — as if he were taking credit for having created Alf’s answers and maybe creating Alf too, shaping him up out of the chaos of this hot, almost-wasted afternoon. They went on down the aisle, stopping at another machine. Alf tried to turn Prince’s next question back to Gordie, but Prince said, “No, no, you’ve got the ball now,” and of course there was no choice. He was leading the tour.
He expected that at any minute a question would come that he could not answer, or that Prince would throw him more questions than anyone could answer, but the attack never came. Prince had turned genial, interested. His blue eyes shone as he listened to Alfwith a proprietorial enthusiasm. It was as if another man altogether had appeared in the white shirt and faultless tan trousers. He even began to make jokes. The others responded with an exaggerated, relieved hilarity, and after a while Alf relaxed too. He realized that Prince had no intention of humiliating him. He realized he was on home ground. He’d tended these machines for years, he’d taken them apart and fit them back together and knew them as well as the heavy Lee-Enfield he had once lugged around Europe, the parts of which he could have assembled blindfolded. But he had never put his knowledge into words before, not to such an extent, and now, a new thing, he saw his years of experience transformed, almost effortlessly, into the currency of language, and it was exciting to him, liberating.
Prince stopped abruptly. Everyone else stopped too, as the boss gazed around with a self-satisfied smile. “Shirley,” he said, “I’ve been thinking,” and it was evident his words were meant not just for her but for the whole party. His voice held an invitation to them to prepare the tribute of their laughter.
“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to get one of these things for the apartment?” He indicated the tall machine churning away beside him, disgorging its tube of soft white cloth. “Save
Gordie was not doing well. Sweat poured off his high, bony forehead, dripped off his nose into his plaid tie with its red ensign clip. He had been all right describing the overall operations of the mill, but when it came to specific machines and routines, he was out of his depth. And Prince knew it. The executive was watching him coldly now, snapping questions at him like pucks. And when Gordie managed to send back a coherent answer, Prince chopped another at him mercilessly. Gordie — he was the only one of the party wearinga jacket — mopped compulsively at his face and repeated, “Right, right” over and over.
It was a display of cruelty on Prince’s part, for by now the executive wasn’t even giving Gordie time to answer. The other men stirred uneasily, averting their eyes.
Finally a question came that Gordie seemed not to hear. The little man stood with an odd half-smile on his wet face, gazing at a place below him as if at his own impending doom. He half-seemed to welcome it.
“Sorry,” he said, looking up.
Alf said quietly, “Mr. Prince wants to know how we handle rush orders.”
Prince said, “Maybe you could tell us, Alf. I think it’s time we heard from the man on the floor.” Prince’s gaze, in all its remorselessly shining insistence, had swung to him. The others, too, looked at Alf, perhaps with a touch of hope, like a crowd looking at a new challenger, a new victim.
Alf told them about rush orders. Remembering how irritated Prince had seemed with Gordie’s meandering, he kept his answer short and to the point, and when he had finished, Prince had another question ready and he answered that too, snapping it back as efficiently as he could. Prince glowed. He cast a knowing glance at the others, as if to say, There, that’s what we want — as if he were taking credit for having created Alf’s answers and maybe creating Alf too, shaping him up out of the chaos of this hot, almost-wasted afternoon. They went on down the aisle, stopping at another machine. Alf tried to turn Prince’s next question back to Gordie, but Prince said, “No, no, you’ve got the ball now,” and of course there was no choice. He was leading the tour.
He expected that at any minute a question would come that he could not answer, or that Prince would throw him more questions than anyone could answer, but the attack never came. Prince had turned genial, interested. His blue eyes shone as he listened to Alfwith a proprietorial enthusiasm. It was as if another man altogether had appeared in the white shirt and faultless tan trousers. He even began to make jokes. The others responded with an exaggerated, relieved hilarity, and after a while Alf relaxed too. He realized that Prince had no intention of humiliating him. He realized he was on home ground. He’d tended these machines for years, he’d taken them apart and fit them back together and knew them as well as the heavy Lee-Enfield he had once lugged around Europe, the parts of which he could have assembled blindfolded. But he had never put his knowledge into words before, not to such an extent, and now, a new thing, he saw his years of experience transformed, almost effortlessly, into the currency of language, and it was exciting to him, liberating.
Prince stopped abruptly. Everyone else stopped too, as the boss gazed around with a self-satisfied smile. “Shirley,” he said, “I’ve been thinking,” and it was evident his words were meant not just for her but for the whole party. His voice held an invitation to them to prepare the tribute of their laughter.
“Don’t you think it’d be a good idea to get one of these things for the apartment?” He indicated the tall machine churning away beside him, disgorging its tube of soft white cloth. “Save
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