Works Outing
WORKS OUTING
Published before somewhere - currently being investigated
It was the one event to which the whole corset factory looked foward from one year to the next. Working for an industrial concern near Birmingham, England, a visit to the seaside would put salt in their veins and the echoes of saucy promenade songs in their ears - providing future memories for the long smokestack evenings when even sexual by-play became more wearing than getting up early on dark mornings.
Tom had worked for the firm, man and boy, since before those gathering storms which, some said, Hitler had magicked up from the blue sky of Europe's new hope but which, in reality, as others perhaps suspected, had belched from the new sprouting factory-chimneys - betokening the conjuration of Man into Machine...
"Tom, I guess you're not going on the trip this year." The foreman smiled, whilst his eyes spoke sorrier volumes.
"Blimey, of course I am, Guv, never missed it before - just since I've been a bit off colour lately, don't mean nothing..."
Tom's dreams had taken a lot out of him.
"I don't want you to overdo things..."
"Oh, I see, I see, dead man's shoes, eh?" said Tom. "I know young Kevin wants to be on the outing and there's no room otherwise. I never thought it would come to this. I fought for this country, young man..."
The foreman, who wasn't that young, shrugged. "OK, Tom you know best."
Yet, Tom, naturally, died. It was two weeks before the outing. Some said he was being like a little kid about the trip, full of eager excitement for the journey. It must have gone straight to his heart.
Young Kevin tried to appear downcast but, in his heart, he knew he would now be able to sit only feet away from Susie in the lead coach. His ticket had Tom's name on it, but no matter. He mourned with the best of them. Tom had been a fine chap, of the old school. And the Congregationalist Church was full to bursting not only with his well-seasoned pals, but with the young blades of the firm's shop floor, all attending to show their last respects (even if they hadn't shown any first ones).
Then August arrived and with it the Corset Works outing.
"Thunderheads are a-bubbling up," said one old fogey, his spit mimicking the action of his premonitions at the corners of his mouth. He pointed into a cloudless blue sky, as he boarded the coach. The others - young shavers among them - jeered. They had forgotten that the weather on these excursions was more often than not just one piss away from a torrent.
The convoy of coaches left the Works car park, past the war-fallen arches, amid cheering and rude gestures. The boots had been stacked with crates of booze. Some of the young shavers, complete with their sparkling ear-lobe jewellery, chanted rudely, whilst the girls from the production-line adjusted their skimpy holiday gear to leave no possible enticements to the imagination. No corsets for them. Flirting as an art form. Flaunting as a subconscious precursor to innocent love.
Young Kevin sat on his own at the rear of the coach, staring at his ticket, torn in half as if he had just been admitted to the one-and-nines at the local flea-pit ... for poor old Tom's last curtain-call.
But, then, as he spotted Susie in her brand new spankers bending down at the front of the coach, he soon forgot. And he joined in with the ritual sing-songs - dateless ditties old Tom would have relished from those good days before the clouds curdled the sky and hid Heaven from the masses for ever and ever...
"Bobbing up and down like this..." one song went. And up and down, up and down, went their heads, as drunk demons from above the rainclouds began to spatter the coach windows with brown-streaked gunge. Young Kevin cursed his new sneakers, as they began to pinch his toes. He should have got at least one size bigger, or more. His feet felt (and probably smelt) as if they were fish cooked in leather. No rhyme or reason to modern thoughts. He shrugged as he thought that life was meaningless. Man�s only war was pitching hopes against fears, and letting the weakest win. Susie didn�t even bother to watch them scrap, occupied, as she was, with rubbish.
Tom - or something that used to be someone called Tom - was busy trawling thoughts that floated elsewhere. One of them about dead men�s shoes. And fallen arches.
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