Matty - Part 3

Matty Part 3 - Sundays

David woke early, after dreaming that had been fencing with Andrew Craven. But the match had taken place in the house he had lived in with his previous wife. The dream had ended with Philippa intervening and spilling red wine on her white dress.

He looked over at the radio-alarm-clock. The digital display read 7:18. He rolled onto his left side and snuggled up to Philippa, kissing her gently on the neck. Both he and Philippa were naked, preferring to sleep that way. They had arrived home well after midnight and David had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Philippa stirred as he continued to kiss her neck while cupping her right breast in his right hand. She rolled towards him and his hand strayed down her body. ‘What time is it?’

‘About seven-twenty,’ David replied.

‘I thought you were going into Leeds.’

‘There’s time’.

***

Phil Parks and Dan Taylor were maintenance engineers employed by Durell Industries’ main factory in Leeds. They were both family men, with children to feed and clothe and bills to pay, so they were not averse to a little overtime; especially ‘Sundays’, which paid double time.

They were the only employees working in the Machine Shop. The machines stood idle, covered in the grime of heavy engineering; no sound except for the two workmates and the rattle of raindrops on the slate and glass roof overhead.

‘Dan, pass us them long nose pliers… no, the little uns.’ Phil, a wiry young man with close-cropped fair hair, was perched on top one of the two large circular three-jaw chucks, inside a vertical turret lathe. He and Dan had spent the previous afternoon, and part of the morning, extracting broken screws from the machine’s turret. As the last of them fell into Phil’s hand he said, ‘Got yer, yer bastard’.

He jumped down from the chuck onto the wooden duck-board, while Dan, a burly man with a bull neck and the features of a prise fighter, lifted the replacement tool block into place and began to secure it with new fixing screws. As he lent forward he accidentally knocked a spanner that had been left on the edge of the machine. It fell, clanging loudly on the sloping surface of the machine guard, and slid into the coolant-filled swarf conveyor.

‘Bollocks! I think it’s time you got the coffees in, Phil.’

‘Fuck off! I got em last time,’ Phil replied.

‘Eye, wi' my bleedin' money. Get yer and in yer pocket, yer tight arse.’

‘Okay, I’ll get em, but don’t forget to fish my spanner out the coolant.’

‘Pillock!’

Phil sidled off to the coffee machine, put a fifty-pence piece in the slot and twice selected coffee-white-with-sugar. He carefully placed the steaming plastic cups of coffee into a small cardboard screw-box and pressed the red change button. Nothing happened, so he pressed the button again several times before returning to Dan, uttering a long line of obscenities on the way.

‘Took yer long enough,’ said Dan.

‘Bloody machines’ out of sodin' change again!’

The pair of them leant against the edge of two steel part stillages, sipping their coffees.

‘It’s bloody quiet in 'ere on Sundays,' said Dan. He was accustomed to the constant drone of a busy factory.

‘Yeah, it’s not like the old days, most o’ the shop would be in on a Sundy,’ Phil replied. ‘Eh… Av you 'erd the one about Posh and Becks goin' bungie-jumpin'?’

‘No’

‘Well, Posh and Becks go to do a bungie-jump, and Posh says, “Are you sure you’ve got the length of this bungie rope right, David?” And Beckham says, “I’m positive, darlin'. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll add another ten foot”.’

Dan laughed, took a sip of his coffee and then spluttered and jumped to his feet. ‘Bloody Norah!’

‘What’s up?’ Phil asked.

‘His bloody Lordships’ in, and Richardson. Get workin!’

Phil looked over his shoulder to see David Lord and Raymond Richardson, managing director of Durell Industries northern factories, walking through the Machine Shop. They were in deep conversation, Richardson stopping occasionally to point towards a machine or at machined iron castings on a conveyor.

‘What the fuck are they doin' in on a Sunday?’ Phil whispered.

***

In the boardroom Fred Oglesby, the Leeds foundry manager, stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out over the roof of the factory to where he could see cars speeding along the motorway in the distance. The top of his head was bald and he was not a little overweight: this had earned him the nickname ‘Friar Tuck’, amongst his workforce. He reached for the cigarettes in the pocket of his well-worn, checked sports coat, then put them back as he remembered that smoking was no longer allowed anywhere in the Leeds offices or factory.

‘So you don’t know what this is about then?’ he asked, turning towards Usman Patel.

Patel, a graduate engineer in his mid thirties, had been recently appointed Technical Director. His clothes and hair were immaculate, his features regular and his expression confident. He sat comfortably in one of the plush chairs that surrounded the long polished mahogany table, reading The Sunday Telegraph. He looked at his wristwatch.

‘We’ll soon find out,’ he said, his accent part Indian but mostly Yorkshire.

There were footsteps in the corridor and the boardroom door opened and in walked David Lord, followed by Raymond Richardson and Jim Stanton, Durell’s Senior Purchasing Manager.

‘Morning, Usman. Morning, Fred.' David Lord moved towards the chair at the end of the table. ‘Sorry to drag you in on a Sunday morning.’ He put his leather briefcase on the floor beside the chair and sat down.

He had met Raymond Richardson in the car park and suggested they take the long route to the office block, through the factory. It had given David the chance to brief Raymond on their forthcoming trip to Germany, and to get up to date on what was happening on the shop floor. Then they had met Jim Stanton in the stairwell and climbed the stairs together, getting the latest on the fire at the foundry in Poland.

Richardson and Stanton exchanged ‘Good mornings’ with Patel and Oglesby, and David Lord again apologized again for pulling their planned meeting forward two days. Though Jim Stanton and Fred Oglesby exchanged glances, having not been advised of Tuesday’s planned meeting.

***

Philippa Lord stepped out of the shower and reached for the large freshly laundered towel on the rail above the heated radiator. She dried herself, starting with her hair and finishing with her feet. Then she gave her hair a second towelling with a smaller towel, walking over to the full-length mirror as she did so.

Her bathroom was large and luxurious, and equipped with a large white Jacuzzi, as well as a shower: the walls and floor were fully tiled in soft pastel colours. An extractor fan above the shower hummed softly and then shut off abruptly.

Philippa looked at herself in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. When she was younger she had thought her breasts too small, but in recent years they had filled out. Her waistline was narrow, her legs long and coltish, the soft triangle of hair below her flat stomach, the same dark brown as the thick long tresses that hung damply from her head. She leaned closer to the mirror examining the fine lines around her eyes. Not bad for forty-one, she thought, but as she moved back from the mirror she looked down at her stomach, holding the flat of her right hand to it, and a sad expression lingered on her face for a moment.

Then she looked back at her face in the mirror, dropped the hand towel, and lifted her hair into a loose bunch at the back of her head, turning to one side as she did so and noticing, not for the first time, more than a few grey hairs. She tilted her head forward, backward, left and right; all the time holding her hair up and watching herself in the mirror. Then she smiled and let her hair drop, having made a decision.

***

There were loud quick footsteps in the corridor and Monica Lowell, an attractive blond in her early forties, walked quickly into the room and made for one of the empty chairs. She was smartly dressed, though her jacket did not look quite right with the skirt she was wearing. ‘Morning, sorry I’m late. My daughter decided to throw up over me just as I was leaving.’

The men around the table laughed and said, ‘Good morning’, but remained seated. Fred Oglesby eyed her with a hungry expression.

‘That’s okay,’ said David Lord. ‘We were just getting started. Jim was just updating us on the fire.’

Jim Stanton coughed nervously and continued to tell what he had learned from the foundry manager in Poland. ‘Well, as I was saying, the two injured men have been released from hospital, but the whole of the pattern shop’s destroyed, along with all their stock of polystyrene moulds. And a fair lump of their production facility could be down for weeks.’

‘How much is a fair lump?’ asked David Lord, pointedly.

‘I don’t know for sure,’ replied Jim, uncomfortably. ‘Perhaps half.’

‘We need facts,’ said David, ‘not assumptions. That’s why I’m flying out there tomorrow. But in the mean time we must assume the worst and at least be ready to make alternative arrangements. Jim, I want you and Fred to make a start on that first thing in the morning. We can’t afford a drop in production now. We must meet the deadline on the Yorkshire Water and Southern Electric contracts. And I don’t need to remind you that our share price is down to fifty-three pence. If the UK press get onto this before we can make a statement, it could knock our shares down further.’

‘If you’d approved the expenditure on our own foundry two years ago, instead of…’ began Fred Oglesby.

‘Fred, we’ve had this conversation before,’ said David Lord angrily, ‘and I don’t intend to waste time on it again. Now, I’ll be in touch by phone tomorrow and I’ll want to hear what contingency plans you have ready. With luck, Poland will still be able to deliver. If not, let’s be ready. Okay?’ Jim and Fred nodded. The others remained silent, knowing that once David Lord became angry, anyone’s head might roll.

‘Now,’ David continued. ‘You may as well all hear this, but remember for now it’s not to leave this room. I’ve been approached by the German engineering company Muller-Denko.’ Everyone except Raymond Richardson and Monica Lowell looked shocked. Muller-Denko was a European competitor. ‘I’ve had talks with them about a possible merger. I would have saved this until Tuesday, but because I need to see for myself what the situation is in Poland I’ve changed my plans. Raymond will be travelling to Germany on Wednesday as previously arranged, and we’ll meet there, along with Simon Parker from Durell South. Does anyone know where Michael Phillips is?’

‘I think he was going away for the weekend.' Usman Patel answered.

‘Would you mind bringing him and Peter Stevenson up to speed tomorrow, Usman? But nobody else. That goes for all of you.' David Lord looked at each of them in turn. ‘I’ve phoned Valerie and asked her to postpone all my appointments. Now, any questions?’

Three of the people around the table began to speak at once and David Lord held up the palms of his hands. ‘One at a time please. Raymond?’

***

Matthew Gower sat in the front pew, beside his Aunt Lucy, listening to his uncle’s sermon. His three-year-old son Dylan sat quietly beside him. Matthew felt decidedly uncomfortable, as he had not been in a church for several years. The church was just as it had been on those few occasions when he had attend it as a boy with his mother, with its unplastered walls of rough stone and single stained glass window that told a visual story of the parish. Matthew no longer considered himself to be a Christian, but not attending would have offended both this aunt and his uncle. Besides, they obviously needed all the help they could get; the church was far from full.

He scratched the back of his neck as an excuse to look over his shoulder, scanning the faces in the pews behind, but not seeing the one he was hoping to see. Then he turned his attention back to his uncle, who was in full flow. But suddenly Dylan, who had sat wide-eyed until that moment, decided that enough was enough. The hymn singing had kept him enthralled, as he had never seen a whole roomful of people stand up and sing before, but this bit was just too boring.

‘Daddy!’

‘Shh,' Matthew put a finger to his lips.

‘Daddy, what’s Uncu John doing?’

This earned Dylan a smile from Rev. John Tillman and chuckles from members of the congregation. So Matthew, deciding that this was a good opportunity to escape, swept Dylan off his feet and quietly carried him out of the church, to the smiles of the people sitting at the ends of the pews.

Outside, the rain had stopped and the sun was beginning to peep through the clouds. Matthew put Dylan down and he began to hop about from one leg to the other. ‘Daddy, I need toilet!’

Matthew walked him over to the birch tree in the corner of the graveyard and helped him to relieve himself, while the crows in the tree screeched loudly, as though in objection. Then, as Matthew walked back towards the church, enjoying the fresh Dales air, Dylan ran ahead. But as Matthew got closer to the church, he heard a footstep behind him and the voice of a woman say, ‘Matty.’

He turned quickly but there was no one there. He turned full circle but still could see no one but Dylan, who had now seen the small JCB digger and was heading towards it. Matthew was about to follow after him but again he heard the woman’s voice, but this time it seemed to come from above him.

‘Run.’

He looked up at the church roof, turning full circle again, but still he could see no one. Then seeing that Dylan was about to climb onto the digger, he ran after him, noticing for the first time the mound of earth and the freshly dug grave cordoned off with red and white stripped tape. He reached Dylan and pulled him down from the digger.

‘Want to have go!’ exclaimed Dylan.

‘No, it’s dangerous,’ said Matthew, holding him tight and looking first into the grave and then back towards the church. ‘I think you must have a guardian angel, Dylan.’

TO BE CONTINUED