Mr Tybalt, as an almost impartial observer, put the situation in perspective.
‘Dagwood,’ he said, ‘you really must be more tactful. I happened to overhear your conversation with McGillvray at lunch time . . .’
‘But, sir . . .’
‘ . . . I agreed entirely with every word you said . . .’
‘Well then . . .’
Mr Tybalt held up his hand. ‘But you’re not the person to say it. As for this Maxwells business, have you ever heard of business games?’
‘No sir?’
‘They’re glorified party games which teach up-and-coming executives how to make mistakes without actually losing the firm any real money. The interesting thing is that they’ve coined a couple of very neat phrases which exactly define what I’m trying to say. Decision-robust, and decision-sensitive. A decision-sensitive business is one where quite a minor decision or a series of minor decisions can have a big effect on profits. Show business, I imagine, is one. A decision-robust business is one where you bloody nearly have to burn the whole place down before you have any effect at all. The Navy is a perfect example of a decision-robust business. It’s just about the most decision-robust business there is. Nobody’s made any effective decisions for years. The last major one was to change from sail to steam. And not everybody agreed with that. The shipbuilding industry is almost as decision-robust as the Navy. It goes on and on for years with nobody bothering very much about it. It’s like a very heavy cast-iron wheel trundling along a road, gradually slowing down. It keeps its balance for a long, long time but eventually it falls - and bingo, when it does, that’s your lot! For good! It takes someone with a bit of go and push like Sir Charles Maxwell, to keep his own wheel trundling a bit longer than the others.’
Mr Tybalt gazed pensively out of his window.
‘I’ll admit this firm are doing what they can. They’re spending five and a half million quid on modernisation. Where they got the money from, heaven only knows. They’re building that new dock and I’ve got to hand it to them at the moment it’s the biggest damned hole in the road I’ve ever seen in my life. But it won’t be ready for another three years, at the rate they’re going. They need it
now!
’
Mr Tybalt carefully traced his initials in the steamed surface of the window.
‘
One
of their troubles is demarcation. One man, one job. If you’re an electrician, you only do an electrician’s job and if you’re a shipwright you only do a shipwright’s job. And nobody else but an electrician or a shipwright can do those jobs. Every time a particular technique is changed, or they try and introduce a new technique, there’s a great brouhaha to decide who’s going to do it. Every union is making quite sure the other unions don’t steal a march on them and they’re all quite blind to the fact that in a few years’ time they’ll all be floating down the river together. What these people need is one union for everybody who builds ships. When you go down into the yard and ask a man what he’s doing he should say “I’m building a ship, what the devil d’you think I’m doing?” If you go down there now and ask a bloke what he’s doing he’ll tell you he’s running these leads or welding up this bracket.’
‘Yes, I see that, sir,’ said Dagwood.
‘Good. But just watch these off-the-cuff remarks of yours. It doesn’t matter that you’re absolutely right. That only makes it worse. A few remarks like that can ruin years of carefully built up good relations.’
Dagwood walked soberly back to his own office. On his way he passed the slipway where the Norwegian tanker was building. As always, he stopped to look at it. It never failed to amaze Dagwood that ships seemed to be built without anyone actually doing anything to them. (Dagwood had noticed the same phenomenon on building sites - houses rose or fell without anyone apparently laying a finger on them.) The groups of men standing in the slipway were talking amongst themselves. There was a man up in the cab of the crane, but the jib was motionless. Once, while Dagwood was watching, one shower of sparks fell from the bows where a welder was crouched on some scaffolding. More men came and went but they brought nothing and took nothing away. And yet, day by day, the ship was undeniably swelling and taking shape. Dagwood thought of the fairy story of the friendly poltergeist who came during the night and washed up the crockery, shined all the shoes and swept out the house. Perhaps a friendly poltergeist visited Harvey McNichol & Drummond every night and welded up a few seams. But that would not be enough. What Harvey McNichol & Drummond needed was not one, but an amalgamated shipbuilding union of friendly poltergeists.
In spare moments at the office Dagwood often amused himself by looking through
Seahorse
’s wardroom Visitors’ Book. Broody had been enthusiastic about the Visitors’ Book, always passing it round when there were guests present. ‘If nothing else, it’ll give you and Ollie something to read during the refit,’ he had said to Dagwood.
The Visitor’s Book was, in its own way, as complete a record of the commission as the control-room log. On the first pages were signatures of the visiting dignitaries and shipyard officials who attended the ship’s launching and the commissioning cocktail party, followed by the names of the admirals, members of Parliament, scientists and public figures who had visited the Navy’s latest submarine. There was even one page containing a Royal signature, but the social tone dropped sharply on the next page in a scrawling, interlocking jumble of pencil signatures which commemorated the party given for the officers of the American nuclear
Samuel P. Peyton
. Then there was page after page of signatures of harbour masters, mayors, governors, naval attaches, members of the chorus, chief constables, burgomasters, wives and girlfriends, and officers from submarines lying in company, all the assorted social flotsam and jetsam of two years’ commission, including a dog’s footprint in indelible ink and several lip-sticked kiss impressions (a memento of an occasion when one of Gavin Doyles’ less inhibited girl friends had had her bare bosom franked with the ship’s Personal and Confidential rubber stamp).
One morning, when Dagwood was idly thumbing through the book, he came across two signatures dating from a visit
Seahorse
had paid to Oozemouth very early in her commission.
‘Jane Dodd, Oozemouth 2733, Senior Service Satisfy!’ read one entry and ‘Hilda Judworth, Oozemouth 3941, Ring me when you’re sober! ‘ said the other.
Dagwood could not recall the authoress of either signature but the opportunity was too good to be missed.
‘I’m quite sober now, anyway,’ he remarked, picking up the telephone.
‘If you’re trying to get The Bodger, he’s gone up to the Admiralty for the day,’ said Ollie.
‘I’m not trying to get The Bodger, I’m chasing up a couple of these frippets in here.’
‘My God, I’d have thought you’d had enough for a bit, after your last fiasco.’
‘Oh that,’ said Dagwood carelessly. ‘I chalk that up to experience.’
‘You ought to know better than to go messing about with Admirals’ daughters. You can’t win. You either have to marry them or stay a two-striper all your life.’
‘Oh
that
, you mean! ‘
‘What else could I mean?’
‘Nothing.’
Meanwhile, the telephone was being answered by a most mature woman’s voice, which could hardly belong to Miss Jane Dodd.
‘May I speak to Jane Dodd, please?’ Dagwood asked.
‘Do you mean Mrs Calder?’
‘Oh good heavens I’m terribly sorry, I’d no idea she was married! ‘
‘She’s been married nearly two years now. They have a small son and they’re living in Singapore at the moment.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m Jane’s mother. Can I take a message?’
‘No, not really, I just didn’t know she was married . . .’
‘Well. . . Good-bye then?’
‘Good-bye.’
‘How about that,’ said Dagwood viciously. ‘She must have been within a month or two of getting married and she puts her telephone number in our Visitors’ Book! I give
that
marriage about five years at the outside!’
‘Why shouldn’t she put her number in the book?’ said Ollie. ‘After all, she did marry somebody in the Navy.’
‘This girl did!’ Dagwood was frequently surprised by the accuracy and detail of Ollie’s biographical knowledge (not guessing that Ollie’s information, like that of most married men, was the result of conscientious staff work by his wife).
‘Why do you think she wrote “Senior Service Satisfy”?’
‘Well, how about that. I wonder if it’s worth me ringing the other one? She’s probably a grandmother by now, for all I know.’
But Miss Hilda Judworth was delighted to hear from Dagwood.
‘ ... Were you the Navigating Officer?’
‘No, I’m Dagwood Jones, the Electrical Officer.’
‘Oh.’ Hilda sounded puzzled. ‘But your boat is in again?’
‘Sort of. We’re here for a refit.’
‘Oh. Well, you must come and see us.’
‘I’d love to.’
‘Would you like to come to the point-to-point with us on Saturday?’
‘That sounds terrific.’
‘It’s the first of the year. The Beaufortshire Forest. D’you know it?’
‘I don’t actually.’
‘It doesn’t matter. We can give you lunch and everything. Have you got a motor-car?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know the “Three Feathers” at King’s Monachorum?’
‘I know King’s Monachorum. That’s where Admiral MacGregor lives.’
‘Yes, do you know him? There’s only one pub there. In the main street. We’ll meet you there at twelve o’clock. O.K.?’
‘O.K.’
‘Bye.’
‘Byee,’ trilled Dagwood. ‘What an efficient-sounding sort of woman,’ he said to Ollie.
‘Your telephone bill is going to be interesting at the end of the month,’ said the practical Ollie.
Any questions Dagwood had about the Judworth family were answered by The Bodger. ‘They’re more county than the county people,’ said The Bodger. ‘Old man Judworth deals with most of the stuff that’s eaten or drunk in Oozemouth, from the wholesale angle.’
‘He must be loaded, sir.’
‘Stinking with the stuff. The chances are that your burgundy and your shush kebab came from Old Man Judworth in the first place.’
‘How ever did you hear about that, sir?’ Dagwood asked, in astonishment.
‘Haven’t you ever heard of the Grapevine, Dagwood? You can’t beat it. If you’re thinking of going to the Forest point-to-point on Saturday, you couldn’t be in better hands than La Judworth’s.’
Saturday morning found Dagwood in a state of high anticipation but troubled by the question of dress. Dagwood was well aware that this might be his chance to make the acquaintance of quite a large slice of local society. It was, in a sense, a debut, and Dagwood was anxious, at least to start with, to conform.
An ordinary race meeting would have presented no problem. Dagwood would have followed normal submarine practice and dressed in his oldest dog-robbing suit, borrowed a pair of binoculars from the Navigating Officer, taken a fiver from the wardroom wine fund, filled a flask with Red Label, and away. But a point-to-point was different. Dress-wise, there were point-to-points, and point-to-points. At some, everyone including the men who parked the cars dressed as though they were waiting to be photographed by The Tatler. At others, though just as fashionable, everyone looked as though they had just sprung, Minerva-like, from the soil itself. Dagwood consulted Molly.
‘The Forest?’ said Molly. ‘They’re a scruffy lot.’
‘Are they a fashionable hunt?’
‘Oh very fashionable but they all dress up like navvies. I should wear your oldest things, if I were you. Would you like to borrow a pair of Bill’s old gummies? It’s normally terribly muddy.’
‘If you really don’t mind my borrowing them.’
‘I’ll get them. Would you like to borrow the Land Rover?’
‘Well really ….’
‘You can have it with pleasure. It’ll be much better than your little car. Last year everybody got stuck.’
‘But aren’t you going yourselves?’
‘No.’ Molly grimaced. ‘Bill’s fallen out with Sir Rollo. They always used to hunt over our farm and we were always invited to the point-to-point but last season Sir Rollo told Bill he was putting too much wire in his fences. Bill told Sir Rollo he’d got a damned nerve to say that and if he ever saw a fox on his land again he’d shoot it!’
‘Did he?’
‘Yes.’ Molly giggled. ‘Bill didn’t mean it really, but he was so wild he told Sir Rollo that if he ever caught him or his horse on our land again he’d give them both a shot up the backside!’ ‘
Did
he? Crikey, I wish I’d been there!’
‘Yes, it was quite a scene. So we’re not invited this year. I’m a bit sorry about it and so is Bill, because Major O’Reilly is a very nice man. He’s joint master with Sir Rollo. Sir Rollo’s got all the money and Major O’Reilly does all the work. Hold on a minute and I’ll get the gummies.’
Dagwood followed Molly’s advice to the letter. When he drove out of the farm-yard in the Land Rover he was wearing Bill’s most ancient pair of Wellington boots, his own maroon corduroy gardening trousers, a submarine sweater which had gone grey with age, and his oldest brown sports coat. Over all he wore his motoring duffle coat and his deerstalker.
The ‘Three Feathers’ was not hard to find and neither was Hilda Judworth. She was the sort of girl who might have made a magnificent second row forward for Roedean, with the physique of a Percheron mare and excellent child-bearing hips. There was no question of missing her; Dagwood would have had difficulty in getting past her. Her already considerable bulk was augmented by a sheepskin-lined leather jacket and her height was increased by a pair of seven-league Newmarket boots. She wore on her head a green silk headscarf embroidered with a picture of every Grand National winner since 1880. Dagwood could see in her the hostess she would one day become, launching herself upon a guest with a gusto which would destroy any confidence he still had left, introducing herself without looking at her guest, announcing his name in such a way that everybody immediately forgot it, if they had ever heard it, and dropping him down in a group of people whom he did not know. Hilda, too, seemed to recognise Dagwood.