Mr Farquharson stood on the warm side of the large glass door and watched his section tread gloomily across the tarmac forecourt. Everyone called him Farq the Shark, although mostly everyone knew he had invented the nickname himself. He stood legs apart, sweaty hands behind his back as if there was a managerial national anthem playing on a loop in his head. God Enslave the Keen. He was pale and lurchy and devoid of anything even the sexual desperados of his factory could find attractive. New recruits were always surprised that there was a Mrs Farquharson and little Farquharsons frolicking in the suburbs. It was the elders’ opinion that it was an arranged marriage. In fact it became legend that Mother Farquharson and her ‘friend’ Mrs Floyd were very good friends indeed, and to ensure their relationship could continue without suspicion, they coached their children into marriage. It could have been true.
Fat Foncey stared at the buxom Mrs Foncey as he raked his beard with the back of his fingernails. The only other sound in the Reek Room came from the crack of smouldering tobacco and the hiss of smoke meandering from fourteen pairs of nostrils. Once upon a time there had been a large clock with a heavy tick tick tick, which gave the 8’ by 5’ room a focal point - any face was better than the ones they looked at across the hot fuming machines ten hours a day. When the clock stopped, the Reekers still stared at it. When it was removed, the Reekers stared at the clean spot left behind. When a summertime student defaced the clean spot with the words “It is never too late to be what you might have been”, the Reekers looked away until the writing was safely covered with a treacle-thick coating of nicotine.
Mrs Foncey seethed “I don’t get paid enough for this shite” puffs of smoke punctuating her every word.
Fat Foncey stopped scraping his beard and grimaced “Aye…ye reek what ye sew.”
The Reek Room cleared.
Noreen was a woman of a certain age. She had worked in the factory for thirty-five years and had never been late once. She was proud of being a hard worker and mistook the horror displayed on the faces of transient teenagers for the respect and admiration she felt she deserved. Over the last few months, though, Noreen looked like something was amiss. Her cheek and charm for the world had disappeared, along with the pounds of gold jewellery that were “presents from the childer abroad.” There was talk of her man being fierce on the drink, but no elder dared even mention it, so they sent a transient who asked her outright. All Noreen replied was “I’ll drink you, me girl”.
Everybody remembers the day Farqhuarson accused Noreen.
For thirty-five years, Noreen had neatly affixed white stickers to a white sheet to tell her bosses how many bundles of grey school jumpers she had perfectly sewn together. The stickers displayed a serial number and how long it should take her sew them. She hated sewing them as much as the school kids hated wearing them. But, the faster she was, the more stickers she had, and the more she would get paid. Noreen had her life timed in stickers and jumpers. Going to the toilet – five jumpers. Having a reek – ten jumpers. Making dinner at home – forty jumpers. She was obsessed. Noreen’s life had been timed and corrupted by ‘Production Targets’ and ‘Time Study Management’ and those bloody white stickers.
One day, in the canteen, Farq the Shark announced that there would be new, coloured stickers. After a collective intake of blue breath, he added that it wouldn’t mean a change in the rate of pay. Secretly, everyone loved the new colourful stickers, they gave you a chance to be creative; you could make stripes or a chequerboard. No-one questioned why they had changed from white. Not until they saw Farquharson’s contorted face as he flapped down the floor towards Noreen, his pork sausage fingers grasping her coloured sheets. He almost looked delighted in an unnatural kind of way. Finally his short little legs caught up with the rest of his body and he breathily exclaimed, “I’ve got ye”.
Noreen had been stealing stickers. No-one could believe that she could be so stupid. The looks of disappointment were crushing her into her seat. Farqhuarson was ecstatic, saying he had known about the thief for weeks but he just had to pinpoint the culprit.
“The colours were a clever ruse,” he praised himself. “All I had to do was match the COLOURED stickers to the WHITE replacement stickers. Yes, only the replacements are white now, but I wouldn’t expect any of youse to understand”. Farq basked in his own middle-management glory as the transients sniggered “Sticker Nicker”. Noreen’s shame poured out of her like smoke from a Reeker.
“Not only have you pocketed £11.96 from this company, but you have stolen four hours and nine minutes, which you’ll work off before you get your things and go!” Farq barked.
Noreen thought of the thirty-five years. Noreen thought of the three hours and forty-five minutes it took to have her first-born child. Noreen thought of the collections she had donated five pounds to every month, the last time for Farquharson’s new baby.
Noreen thought of the writing on the Reek Room wall.
Noreen worked her four hours and nine minutes. She sewed more jumpers then than ever before, shamefully hunched over that machine. And when her time was up, she left quietly, her shoulders shaking from sobbing.
Months later, mothers all over the town bought the grey school jumpers Noreen had so remorsefully sewn and, on checking the size, found a tiny handwritten note:
Farq the Shark fancies Fat Foncey
Noreen hadn’t ever been a gossip. But it’s never too late.
