1. HATCH

French disconnection

HE’D noticed the building on three previous visits and each time he’d found himself pausing and staring.

The jutting angles said it was architect-designed, that it hadn’t arrived as kit on a lorry. But what kind of architect specified buttresses – supposedly emblems of strength and security - in paper-thin aluminium pierced with wide circular holes? Or a central gazebo fashioned in clumsy square tubing?

And why ape the colours of the Swedish flag? Blue roofs that arched up like the prow of a ship supported by ribbed walls in dayglo yellow. The whole thing as insubstantial as a child’s playhouse, too tinny to withstand even a mythical sea.

Hatch knew his limitations, knew his Britishness was out of step with the French desire to be different. But he was born into industry. He’d visited companies in France housed in similar buildings and this wilful fragility clearly represented a policy which other PDGs shared. Yet this one contained five units and must have been financed speculatively. What developer could be so certain of finding five tenants willing to accept this expression of commerce?

Hatch opened the door of the tiny Peugeot and for the first time noticed the surrounding car park was empty - offices and workshops unmistakably muffled and inert. Lemazaire’s unit was on the right but there was no sign of life behind the glass frontage.

On Lemazaire’s door hung an horaires d’ouverture: a plastic plaque with four clock faces and rotatable hands. Signs of presence and absence. On the Saturday clock both hands stood at twelve: the equivalent of nothing o’clock, no business. Hands on the weekday clocks had been positioned carelessly but he guessed that visitors arriving after twelve-thirty would kick their heels for two hours. Frustration that had subsided since Cherbourg rose again. Hatch tried the door, found it locked and banged at his sturdy-armed reflection. A shadow in bleu de travail appeared in reception, pointed to the clock faces and retired. Using fist and car keys Hatch banged away but to no avail.

There was however a sheet of paper – a letter – Sellotaped inside the door. Perhaps that offered something relevant. The text was short enough to encourage Hatch to make sense of the few lines of French. Then he noticed the date, 1988. The letter was two years old.

Hatch leant against the car, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his unsuitably thick corduroy trousers and looked again at the blue and yellow building. Saw the irony. A super-modernist shape combined with in/out clocks dating back decades. In the meantime where was Lemazaire?

He’d come too far and spent too much money to retreat in the face of all this Frenchness; to give in to these surrounding facades and their unhelpful acronyms - SNIC and FANECMA. But where and how? Lemazaire, he knew, drove a Mercedes which would stand out among parked French cars in the nearby small town. Hatch couldn’t recall the colour but it would come to him.

Seized with determination he drove towards the town and pulled in at the waggishly named Relais des Noës. Inside the open doorway sweating waiters carrying full trays of aperitifs brushed past him but they were the ones at risk. He stepped abruptly into the flow and barked Patron at a startled young face. The lad directed him to the bar where a short man wearing a Harris tweed jacket lolled, apparently impervious to the heat. Too impatient to express what he wanted Hatch misused the word affaire and the man looked blank.

“Affaire? Quelle affaire?” he asked, comically scanning the bar for delinquent wives.

“Pardon. It is a matter of commerce.”

Business, it seemed, was business. The man switched to circuitous but recognisable English. “This monsieur, you believe he is a client here? His name, please.”

“Lemazaire. His office is near.”

This brought no response. Hatch guessed Lemazaire did not eat at the Relais des Noës but the restaurateur wasn’t prepared to admit it. There was a delay as the restaurateur reached down a bottle of scotch and poured himself a drink. Curious about the label, Hatch noted the brand: McClaggart, unknown in Britain, christened aggressively to appeal to the French.

“This monsieur, his métier is…”

Factor in welding consumables was way beyond Hatch’s capacity but he responded in kind, indeed found it difficult to avoid doing so: “He interests himself in welding, er, la soudure.”

The restaurateur looked grandly out over the dining room and lied, “He does not take lunch today.”

“He lives some miles – some kilometres – away. Too far away for lunch. Are there other restaurants?”

“Of course.” This was, after all, France.

“Could you suggest…? It is vital I see him.”

“Vital?”

“Important.”

“And yet it is lunch time.” He noted Hatch’s perspiring forehead. “Perhaps you are not comfortable. Why not take a table, command a beer and eat here? In the afternoon you will meet your famous monsieur Lemazaire in his office.”

“I would like to eat here. This is the sort of restaurant I like,” said Hatch, lying with the same ease as the restaurateur. “Monsieur Lemazaire and I have a customer who needs our service. A customer, monsieur.” Hatch gestured at the pastis-swilling crowd. “One must serve a customer.”

This touched on a sense of professionalism and Hatch left with precise instructions about two other restaurants in the Place de l’Eglise (“Simple places, monsieur. The plat du jour.”). In the second Lemazaire was immediately visible, looking up, a frond of radicchie hanging from his mouth, beside him a carafe of rosé a third consumed.

“Andrew you are here at last.”

“And you… are there.”

“Bien sur. You are hot. Some wine? Why don’t you sit down.”

Lemazaire, sitting, was forced to lean back to speak to Hatch. Hatch straightened up making it even more difficult. “You go to lunch early.”

“The normal time.”

“I was at your place soon after twelve-thirty. We would have passed each other.” He looked significantly at the carafe. “You left early.”

“It was lunchtime.”

“An elastic concept.”

Lemazaire’s English was fluent but not complete. “I do not… Andrew, please sit down.”

On the wall was a mirror on which art nouveau script advertised a drink called Suze. The words fragmented their reflection: he, the Anglo, with close-cropped brown hair, rolled-up sleeves, golden fuzz on his forearms, facing Lemazaire’s delicate Mediterranean bones, artfully styled black hair and generously cut shirt. “You were supposed to wait. We were to go to Sofimam together.”

“But it would have… lacked point.”

“It was what we agreed.”

“Andrew, please sit down.” The urgency had increased and Hatch now understood why. Other diners, possibly business acquaintances, were watching Lemazaire with interest.

“Why pointless?”

“Because Baudinière would have left the plant.”

“Our meeting…?” But Hatch knew the answer.

“He would have been at lunch himself.” Lemazaire’s concern was audible. He gabbled. “Today is Friday; he eats at Le Chêne Doré. Always.” The dark liquid eyes engaged Hatch’s. “Close to the Nantes – Brest canal.”

That last detail – that non-sequitur - persuaded Hatch that Lemazaire had suffered enough. Saying nothing, he waited until the silence became unnatural then lowered himself on to a nearby chair. A sigh ran round the other diners.

Lemazaire’s relief was palpable. “We did say ten-thirty this morning,” He glanced at his wristwatch with its heavy expandable bracelet. “That was nearly three hours ago. He will have contacted another source of rutiles.”

“Portsmouth had a bomb scare,” said Hatch. “But surely Baudinière has a problem. He needs to weld up those pressure vessels. It’s a defence contract with penalties. I have the first batch of wire in the car.”

“Your… our delay will have let in our biggest competitor Toutsoudure. They will make the formulation very quickly. Andrew, you did your best.”

“My best, Jean-Claude?” The midnight start had caught up with him and he was suddenly tired. “That isn’t how Tamworth will see it.”

“They will understand. It’s a beautiful day. You may try an andouillette for the first time.” Lemazaire tapped the carafe. “First a drink.”

But the rosé reminded Hatch of the missed rendezvous. “Not that. Some of that,” indicating the Suze advertisement. Lemazaire’s eyebrows rose as did those of the waiter who took the order but neither said anything. Both watched interestedly as Hatch sipped. “What the hell’s this?” Hatch asked incredulously.

“An apéritif á la gentiane. Made from flowers of the Alps. Rather bitter I would say. It calms the stomach. Did it calm your stomach?”

“Not exactly,” said Hatch leaning back in his chair. Then he laughed and it was a relief to do so.

Forewarned by the Suze he asked Lemazaire to explain the andouillette, teetered, then shrugged his shoulders. After which the meal followed a leisurely course.

As they drank coffee Hatch’s mind turned, as it often did, to the crux in his own professional life. “At university, Jean-Claude, what subject?”

“Political philosophy.”

That sounded like two subjects. “And yet you sell for a living?”

“I think the English is: it’s a stepping stone. I will move on. My uncle runs the holding company.”

“And yet you are a good salesman. Friends recommended you.”

“Except, perhaps, today,” said Jean-Claude, demurely lowering his long eyelashes. “Yes, I am successful. But you, Andrew, were not always a salesman?”

“No,” said Hatch heavily. “That’s true.”

AS OF OLD, Baudinière received him with heartless courtesy. The missed delivery? Such things happened. The communication failures by Lemazaire? (Hatch had come alone.) Jean-Claude was young and had yet to learn the exigencies of manufacturing industry. And the future? There was no reason why Hatch might not try again once this current ennui had been forgotten.

But Hatch, present only to apologise, had other things on his mind. They were sitting in an office on a mezzanine overlooking Sofimam’s production area. Final assembly lay below and when Baudinière took an incoming phone call, Hatch swung round in his chair to inspect things more closely. It didn’t make sense.

Behind him, Baudinière put down the phone and said genially, “Ah the war-horse smells the gunpowder. You notice our little changes. A production line that is not a production line.”

“It looks - might one say - a little messy?”

“Exactly what my managers said. Engineers, all of them. They shouted about the aesthetics. Such nonsense.”

Hatch waited but Baudinière, still smiling, still expansive, wanted him to ask the obvious question. As a way of substantiating his apology. “Why the changes, Luc?”

“Cellular manufacture.”

Hatch gritted his teeth. “I thought it was still experimental. Only the Japs had tackled it.”

“We are not the first, even in Loire-Atlantique. As you know Sofimam looked at just-in-time even when we were friendly competitors with Tempest. But in those days we lacked the technology.”

Not wishing to waste his act of contrition Hatch ignored “friendly competitors”. Back then Sofimam hadn’t merely lacked the technology they’d lacked the cash and the professional daring. Tempest, Hatch’s former employer in Britain, had been more profitable, more advanced and more commercially adventurous. Only an unforeseeable liability case by a litigious French retailer and a xenophobic court judgment about what constituted a safe wall plug had laid Tempest low. Sofimam’s subsequent growth was mainly because Tempest had disappeared from the European market.

“And you designed the system down there yourself, Luc?”

 “I am a genius at production, but not that kind of genius. After the age of forty one uses consultants. Our plant was analysed by an American - young enough to be my son yet he’d worked for Boeing and Intel. I paid his huge fee from the departmental budget to prevent argument. Then I told the board. They recognised the value of the changes more quickly than my engineers.”

“And so...”

“One discards the central conveyor and learns much new jargon. We are now - ” Baudinière pronounced the English phrases with relish, “demand-driven. We react to pull instead of push. There are, I believe, French translations but no one uses them. Instead, we stand everything on its head and see inventory cut to twenty percent. But you know the theory.”

Hatch did know the theory. What he lacked was the experience. Baudinière resumed his unctuousness. “My dear Andrew, I am sure if Tempest had been more fortunate you would have told me what I have just told you. And I am convinced you would have got there first.”

Fulsome, but nevertheless a compliment. “I envy you the exhilaration, Luc. Production is normally so gradual: a few mods here, a few there.” Hatch gestured. “We spend quarter-of-a-million on a machine tool but the gains are small and so predictable. You re-ordered the universe.”

“In the end it is company politics. One learns, one calculates the benefits, one influences those who control the caisse. But... what about you, at this moment? This company you work for, Weldworth…”

“Terrible name. Engineers are no good at christening companies. Welding and Tamworth. A sort of…”

“A jeu de mots. Ah, I see. Welding consumables are surely only a minor – and temporary - consolation?”

“It’s selling, Luc. Something neither you nor I were trained for. And it’s taking responsibility for others with imperfect skills.”

 “Selling is different, Andrew. Jean-Claude Lemazaire has no conception of critical path and we both do. But he knows how to - what do the Americans say? - put a foot in the door. He discovered you and I had professional links and he approached Sofimam. That is how selling works.”

“Then wrecked the sale by misinforming us, forgetting to pass on a crucial date, and being unreachable for three days. He lacks discipline.”

“His is a different discipline, Andrew.”

Hatch switched from an unprofitable subject. “You used to have a drawing table in your office. Wasn’t it your father’s?”

“Indeed. He bought it for two hundred and seventeen francs in 1932. A colossal sum then. I discarded it several years ago, once I’d installed CAD.”

“CAD?”

Baudinière frowned. “Computer-aided design.”

Hatch knew about CAD but the pronunciation had foxed him. “I misheard. I’m not that out of touch.” Yet it probably seemed all of piece to Baudinière.

“These days the drawings are on the network. The Sun over there has the CAD; the spreadsheets and word-processing are on the PC, here.” Hatch had deliberately continued to keep up with computers since leaving Tempest. But it was one thing to spot trends and quite another to deduce why Baudinière needed two computer monitors.

Hatch drew himself up. “It was good of you to see me Luc. I needed to explain.”

“Not for a moment were they your errors. I know you. I have been to your factory and you have been to mine. I have heard you give papers. It wasn’t you.”

 Hatch said, “Once we were competitors, we both made washing machines. But we still got on. Nice to know that still happens.”

“Washing machines are irrelevant. What matters is professionalism. The cell scheme lets us diversify. As you know, Jean-Claude’s MIG wire -” Baudinière waved sympathetically. “was needed for pressure vessels. I refuse to concentrate eternally on stabilising the fast spin cycle. Yet, it is all production. By the way, you would be welcome to stay with us tonight if you can delay your return.”

A gruesome thought. “Thanks Luc, but I do have a ferry to catch.” Which was true but unimportant.

Driving north on the Rennes road, sweating as Sofimam’s air conditioning became a memory, Hatch held Baudinière at arm’s length. At Tempest Hatch had worked to a budget, a set of financial rules, an industrial necessity. Nothing to get sentimental about. Yet Baudinière’s casual allusion to budgets gave the word a mild poignancy. It was of course a reminder of Hatch’s lost office, that sales were a step down and a step away . This afternoon he had watched the show again, but from the wings.

ON THE Southampton ferry he bought The Daily Telegraph, throwing away everything but the classifieds. The newspaper would shortly become a new regime, something of a barometer of his affairs. Two years ago he’d been startled when his local newsagent, a visibly prospering Pakistani, had handed over his copy with a remark that assumed Hatch supported the Conservatives.

“It’s the newspaper for engineers,” Hatch had protested.

“Indeed. I trained as a systems analyst myself and I too read the dear old Bellylaugh. Now I find it consonant with my politics.”

“And yet you.... ” Hatch gestured at Mars Bars and Silk Cut.

“My dear fellow, mere economic pragmatism. I could have spent forty years with ICL and retired on a modest pension. Instead I shall sell this gold mine in four years and put my principles into practice. I shall stand for a constituency in the Conservative interest.”

Hatch left the shop shocked at hard science traded for rolls of gift wrapping. He pretended the fellow hadn’t been a good systems analyst but something about the newsagent suggested otherwise. And then there was also that damnable matter of politics.

At university Hatch had disdained politics on the grounds that it defied quantification. To the few leftists he met - and there weren’t many at Loughborough - he pooh-poohed Gramsci and quoted instead Lord Kelvin’s “To measure is to know” as the firmer rock on which to build a faith. He had neither the time nor the cash for newspapers at Loughborough but once he started work he noticed that mech-engs favoured the Telegraph, tried it, decided it was “factual” and willy-nilly became a Telegraph reader. At that point he’d have been hard put to say what the paper’s political slant was since he only read the news stories and ignored the comment.

Here on the ferry he’d reduced the paper to a bunch of cards in a Job Centre. Appalled by the waste he picked a discarded editorial page from the rubbish bin. The major story described a government crisis but couldn’t be taken at face value. It was a crisis that might happen when, or if, something else happened. In Brussels. Hatch hated this: looking for definition and finding only speculation.

He turned over the page and found a headline about the poll tax. Here at least he was on firmer ground. He knew that the government had declared local rates to be unfair and was intent on replacing them with a new system, said to be fairer. Moved by self-interest he had studied the poll tax in the early days when articles still explained rather than interpreted. He’d even pursued it in the weeks that followed since he was never able to see how the new tax was fairer or why it was worth the flak the government was attracting. Something of a political mystery.

By now he recognised a note of desperation as journalists scratched around to say something new about poll tax and to avoid repetition. Only a small part of the article he was reading could be termed news and even that was hardly current, dealing with the aftermath of anti-government riots in Brixton a month before. The rest speculated apocalyptically about the prime minister’s future. Did this matter?

Presumably it did if one was a Conservative. And that for Hatch had never been truly established. During his time with Tempest, across management meeting tables, at professional conferences and on first-class train journeys down to London, the consensus was that the present government was “good for business”. Since Tempest’s profits had grown during the same period Hatch had nodded his head and had left it at that. Tempest’s chairman had received an OBE in the New Year’s honours and invited senior staff to agree that his gong “could only benefit washing machine manufacture”. Shamefaced now, Hatch had nodded at this too. This made him Conservative by default.

Another strand in his life also supported this rather rickety stance. At Loughborough the tiny Socialist Workers Party, tickled by his Lord Kelvin quote, had taken a shine to Hatch after he’d led a group of self-conscious mech-eng students in a campaign to reinstate a canteen employee, fired for uncleanliness. The SWP met Hatch convivially in the student bar and bought him a beer to show solidarity. In the interests of equality the four of them allowed him to return the favour.

But the gesture foundered on the rock of their rhetoric. Hatch was alarmed by an avalanche of avowals about nationalising the means of production, disbanding the police and forming local militia.

Firing the woman was a typical capitalist power-play, he was told. The crushing of a vulnerable member of society. On a trumped-up charge.

“But it wasn’t trumped-up,” Hatch pointed out.

“Of course it was. Pure exploitation. Do you know what her hourly rate is?”

“That’s irrelevant. She was seen regularly moving garbage bins and returning to the servery without washing her hands.”

“A rumour cooked up by management.”

“Not so. I’ve seen her do it myself – several times.”

“But you campaigned…”

“It’s an open and shut case.”

“Oh look, come on”

“Incorrect procedures. Firing’s a last resort. And only after informal and formal warnings.”

Hatch found himself surrounded by angry, frustrated faces. The members of the SWP had either not taken Basic Management (Industrial Relations) or had done so and rejected its philosophy. In unison they stood up, condemned Hatch as a Tory wanker and made for the door. Two even underlined their feelings by leaving partially full glasses.

Hatch had mixed feelings. His views remained ill-defined but he had no enthusiasm for state-run manufacturing. Part of him at least must surely be Conservative.

If working for Tempest didn’t exactly nourish a right-wing tendency it provided a marinade, preserving it and adding flavour. Tempest was flourishing and Hatch flourished with it. When the status quo brings bonuses and promotion there’s less temptation to look elsewhere. Hatch continued to absorb the Telegraph’s “facts” while remaining ignorant of its politics, sliding ineluctably towards the template that fitted a typical reader.

But failure breeds doubt. When Tempest lost out in the courts Hatch’s ladder disappeared and with it his default Conservatism. Finding himself thrashing about in the world of selling brought doubts aplenty. And now even that unsatisfying job would be lost on Monday, turning him into an activist, tackling the establishment from outside. Work - desirable work - lay within a walled city which presently excluded him.

As the ferry ploughed the early evening sea, and the legions of the damned clinked their duty-frees round C Deck, Hatch turned his attention to the classifieds, analysing an invitation to join a noted engineering company as production manager. Degree, OK. Experience, OK. Even age seemed negotiable (Or did the law force advertisers to lie about this requirement?). Location in the West Midlands, fine. But how about: “Capable of supervising tightly-defined supplier partnerships”?

For Hatch, job descriptions were clear or cloudy mirrors of his competence. Supplier partnerships - where buyer and vendor open their books to each other - were outside his experience. He turned the page to read about opportunities in Indonesia but imagined being a non-smoker would tell against him as he asked to be allowed to commission a tobacco-products plant.

His heart wasn’t in it. Job ads were depressing because they assumed a need to read them. A signpost between those tucked into comforting employment and those lacking that comfort. But the language of comfort itself was depressing, a collection of pebbles with all distinguishing features worn away. Could “hard working” ever hope to separate out the drones? And was “join a dynamic team” anything other than an invitation to enlist in the human race? Why was it that the companies all sounded fictitious?

But once, at least, he must have succumbed to such unreal language.

The ad that had drawn him into Tempest was now forgotten but it could hardly have been witty or out of the ordinary. Tempest was a traditional manufacturer through and through. Certainly Hatch’s initial months hadn’t matched any grandiose promises and a less energetic trainee could have whiled away a decade as part of the company’s residue. Moving on had forced him to be sly and ruthless, neither of them qualities mentioned in job ads.

While labouring in quality control – repetitive work, almost at apprentice level - he got wind of an unpaid vacancy liaising between the drawing office and Tempest’s senior management. The role had never previously existed and lack of extra cash had discouraged applications. But the board had somehow identified the need and the senior manager charged with the appointment explained things quite simply: drawing offices cost money and, at the very least, deserved scrutiny.

“Basically, you want a spy.” Hatch suggested.

The manager laughed in affirmation.

“How quickly is the board looking for results?”

The manager shifted slightly. “Quite quickly. Look, I could probably get you something ex gratia if you’re interested.”

“I’d rather be responsible for upping efficiency.”

“What do you know about running a drawing office?”

“Very little. But ours gives poor service and I have a couple of ideas.”

“Tell me about them.” They went down well and Hatch was free to try his arm.

Elwyn, fat and disappointed, allowed his huge angled board to act as protection against Hatch, the new menace. He waited, mouth formed in protest, as Hatch said, “I intend to ride a personal hobby-horse here.”

“So what? Drawing’s fucking drawing. Simplest thing in the company. Nothing changes.” Then came his well-honed master-stroke. “Thinking of saving a penny or two by watering the ink?”

“No. But I have been thinking about paper.”

Elwyn’s eyebrows shrank. “Paper! What the hell does that mean?”

“Any idea how much paper we waste?”

“None at all.”

“None?”

“A few sheets. A piddling amount. No savings there.”

“There are different ways of wasting paper.”

“Don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“That’s because you do the drawings, you don’t use them. You aren’t bent over a lathe sorting through piles of detail sheets for the main specs.”

Thinking he’d spotted a weakness Elwyn waded in. “So you’ll do away with detail drawings? You’d better buy a shit-proof umbrella.”

“Elwyn old chap, give me credit. That isn’t the plan. But surely you can guess what the plan is. Do so and it’s your idea rather than mine.”

Elwyn dated back to washing machines with fitted mangles and his reflexes had long since slowed down. He stared at Hatch but the light-bulb failed to switch on. Devotion to routine had betrayed him and Hatch handed him a signed memo. “It’s no big thing Elwyn. Here’s a schedule of scale changes. We’ll win sufficient space on the main specs to accommodate the detail drawings.”

Elwyn glanced at the sheet of paper but the numerical data offered nothing he could absorb in the seconds he had available. A final glimmer from his porcine eyes: “The numbering system doesn’t cover it. One drawing, one number.”

Hatch passed over another memo. “I’ve rejigged the sequence. It’s explained here.”

Initial recognition came from the shopfloor. Tool operators tied to the multi-sheet system insisted on “Hatch” drawings. The senior manager, having answered the board’s request without spending a penny, passed Hatch’s name upwards – notably to the production manager who was planning for retirement and saw a bright candidate for his deputy.

One other Tempest employee was a gainer. Given time to examine Hatch’s scheme more closely, Elwyn noted it didn’t work with two export models; the obvious answer was to group the detail drawings. On his own initiative he drafted examples, made an appointment and laid them in front of the newly appointed deputy production manager.

Hatch grinned at Elwyn. “You’d never believe me if I told you I was aware of these two exceptions. They don’t matter; my system holds true for the majority and I got acceptance for that. But you’re due your bit”

Elwyn received £150 in W. H. Smith gift vouchers and his photograph appeared under the headline “Best idea of 1979” in the company magazine. His wife said the photo flattered him and he was encouraged to submit two other suggestions which were not adopted but gained him £10 vouchers on each occasion. On the rare occasions he and Hatch met in the company corridors a furtive look passed over his convex face.

Chilled now by the sea air Hatch folded up the newspaper and dropped it in the bin. In urgent need of coffee he nevertheless remained seated, idly drafting a job ad intended for the real world. “Young engineer wanted - probably maddened by routine work Willing to chance himself to escape drudgery. Some ingenuity desirable. Forceful enough to override entrenched opinion. Driven to get his own way. Skilled in hiding his own shortcomings and in seeing the benefits of compromise. Able to withstand peer hatred.”