J D Collins was one of the pillars of modern British industry. Founded by the original J D Collins in Victorian London, it had grown into an engineering company without equal. The modest unskilled workforce laboured long hours in the heat of the foundry, to the pounding of the jackhammers, the whine of the drills and the constant drone of a vast assortment of other machinery which, all combined, served to construct the complex pieces of equipment which were designed by the engineers.
J D Collins was the engineers. Without the engineers the company was nothing.
But the converse was also true: without the company the engineers were nothing, though none of them had ever spared a thought in that dangerous direction.
However, Nigel the head of the fourth generation in the JD Collins lineage was just now thinking very seriously about that very subject. His father had died a few short months ago and the responsibility for the entire company now rested fairly and squarely on his shoulders alone. He had just emerged from a long and painful meeting with the company accountants during which they had pulled no punches in respect of the seriousness of the situation.
He was still smarting from the use of the word 'dinosaur' to describe the British manufacturing industry, which they argued no longer had any realistic chance of competing with the cheap and ruthless efficiency of China, Taiwan, India and all of the other burgeoning industrial nations. While it was still true that their quality and prestige was legend around the world, the world could no longer afford the high cost of goods manufactured to high specification in a first world country. It was fast becoming more cost effective to buy inferior machinery at a much lower price from further east and to be prepared to accept the inconvenience of a few defective units amongst the many.
In a word, J D Collins was on a knife edge. His father had doggedly refused to accept the counsel of his advisers, preferring instead to maintain the honour of the family name, despite their poor performance on the stock market. Year on year they were making a loss which could not be sustained for very much longer. It was a regrettable decision to make – unpopular and unthinkable – but it had to be made.
A few weeks later the entire company was summoned to a meeting on the shop floor before the day's work began. The whole board was present, but they stood in tight lipped silence while Nigel spelt out the grim situation. The company would gradually diminish over the next few months while the current orders were fulfilled, but no new contracts were to be taken on. The redundancy package would be generous and he was certain that a workforce of such excellence would easily find suitable employment in the local market.
Barry Southgate, however, was not so confident. He was deep in conversation with Arthur Green, his chief engineer.
'We're completely stuffed, Arthur. Collins is the last of its kind to fail. There's nothing of its engineering equal anywhere around here and I even doubt we'd find anything like it anywhere else in the country.'
For years Arthur had been the rock at the centre of the engineering department, a firm but fair man, but his situation would turn out in the end to be no different to the other nine and he had nothing constructive or optimistic to add. All he could manage was, 'What a waste . . . there's got to be two hundred years of experience amongst the ten of us – all gone in one short slash across the throat.' In fact there was two hundred and twenty three years of combined experience between them as all but two of them had served their apprenticeships at Collins after leaving school. With expert supervision and intensive training, they were all specialists in a wide variety of Computer aided design and all forms of metallurgical skills.
It was a very subdued group who met later in the Duke of Wellington to discuss the situation and to drown their sorrows. But even in this elite forum they could see no light at the end of the tunnel.
Barry and Arthur were together in the queue at the Job Centre and, although the clerk was genuinely sympathetic with their dreadful position, both were given the same advice: that they were significantly over qualified for the local job market, and that while there were other jobs available in the area they would not be entitled to benefits.
They walked out of the office, two broken men with appointments for an interview at the Civic Centre. A week later it was with heavy hearts that they found themselves driving onto Hackney Marshes to report for their first day's duty at the Civic Amenity Site, short staffed due to a group win on the Lottery. The only person left at the place was old Tommy, well past retirement age, but a goldmine of useful information in all matters refuse disposal related.
Tommy had always been top dog at the site and was not about to relinquish his position in deference to the impressive qualifications of the new recruits. He gave Barry and Arthur the most physical, messy and unpleasant jobs, while he 'supervised' from the portacabin office, making the occasional foray out onto the 'shop floor' to ensure they were carrying out their duties to his satisfaction.
The great British public is not very skilled at differentiating between the different re-cycling bins and it was a constant battle to ensure that they either put their rubbish in the right place or that they rescued the offending item from the wrong place before it jammed up the machine or became buried beneath the ever growing pile.
One of the worst problems was the Metals Bin, where all manner of household and garden appliances should be thrown and much of their time was devoted to keeping this area free from inappropriate material and pushing the new arrivals to the back.
An elderly man in smart grey suit was struggling to pull a bright red pedal cycle from the boot of his large and luxurious estate car. Barry walked across to help him, but before he could reach him the bike swung out of the car and the man propped it carefully against the front corner of the container. Barry called out, 'Right in the back of the bin please.' But the man ignored him completely. It was quite apparent that, once out of his car, the bicycle was now their problem, not his. Barry shook his head and grabbed the bike, ready to throw it inside, but his hands closed on shiny red metal and he took a closer look.
Arthur's voice came from over his shoulder, 'What a waste! Looks like a runner to me.'
Barry ran an experienced eye over the frame; the pedal crank had been sheared off and the saddle had a small tear at the back. 'Looks like it only needs a couple of bits and it'll be good as new.'
Arthur said, 'Why don't you clear it with Tommy, I'm sure he won't care if you take it.'
Tommy did in fact examine the bike with an equally experienced eye, but he lost interest when he saw the damaged parts. 'Can't be bothered, at my age, like. Used to have a few bits, if they was useful, but it's too much aggro now. Take it; just don't let the bosses see you take it. Wait until we close up for the night and it's all quiet.
The bike wouldn't fit into Barry's Fiesta, so Arthur ran it back for him in his hatchback. Over the next few days they bought the spare parts and with relatively little effort they managed to sell it through the local paper. It wasn't a fortune, but the little venture had stirred their engineering passions and they began to take a more professional interest in the things that were being abandoned at the site. Barry picked up a lawnmower which only needed a new belt; Arthur spotted a Dyson which needed nothing more than a solid wad of fluff poking out from the pipe. Within a month they had quite a lucrative and enjoyable little side line going on. They were careful to keep Tommy in the loop; he wasn't interested in having any of the stuff, but he was given a share in the profits they made to keep him sweet.
Long might it have continued, except that one day a large black car pulled into the yard and the driver went straight into the portacabin office. Tommy emerged a few minutes later. He was red faced as he summoned Barry and Arthur to join them.
'This is Mr Rayner,' he said, then he backed off and let the Council official take over.
'The Council derives a useful income from the sale of the recyclable products, but of late the scrap metal seems to be down quite noticeably.' He paused and looked from Barry to Arthur waiting for a response. When none was received he continued, 'And it seems to have started around the time that you two started here.' Again he paused for effect, but the two men looked at each other and shrugged.
Arthur said, 'Every day is different. Sometimes it's all wood and broken furniture, sometimes it's all garden waste. Never the same two days running.'
Mr Rayner smiled wickedly. 'I had hoped you would cooperate, but no hope of that, is there. Now, who owns the black Mondeo?'
Arthur squared his shoulders in defiance. 'It's mine, why?'
'Well it seems that there are several objects inside it which should not be there.'
Arthur made no response, but his eyes remained locked on the gimlet eyes of the official.
The wicked smile widened. 'Then I suggest you remove our property from your car and leave the premises. We do not tolerate theft.'
Barry felt guilty as all of this had started from his red bicycle. He moved in front of Arthur and said, 'Mr Rayner. The stuff in Arthur's car is mine. He wouldn't drop me in it, but it's me you want to blame, not him.'
'A heartrending confession, I am sure, but theft is theft.' He turned to Tommy. 'I want them both off the site immediately.'
All three men watched in disbelief as the officious official drove off. Tommy said, 'Sorry, lads, I'll be sad to see you go, you two have been different from the usual sort we get here.'
The two of them were sad to see themselves go as well. The future looked bleak. If the Council broadcast the theft in a reference, then there was no hope of further employment anywhere. They returned to Barry's house in disgrace and spent most of the afternoon emptying the fridge of cold beer and trying to find a way out of their mess, but without success. It took Barry's son, Nathan, to see the wood for the trees.
'You were making good money from doing up that stuff. You've got all the expertise, all you need is another source of stuff.'
When this suggestion fell onto unresponsive ears he continued, 'Advertise.' They both exchanged sceptical glances. 'The Net is the way to go. Targeted advertising. Have you ever wondered why, when you have been searching for a holiday, every advert that pops up for days is about holidays? It's not coincidence.'
They both nodded, thoughtfully. 'Well, all you do is set it up so that whenever someone searches for something mechanical on-line they get a pop up from you offering to take their old one away for free.' His grin was that of a teenager who has got one over on the oldies who still thought they knew everything.
Barry was amazed how simple it was to set up, but the cost drew in a sharp breath. However, within a few weeks the e-mails began to trickle in. A gentle trickle of redundant items which gathered momentum until very soon the two of them were becoming overwhelmed. On principal they refused to reject anything, but when Barry's garage started overflowing into the house, his wife 'had words' and they made an impassioned plea to the other engineers who had once been in their team. Jack and Martin were still unemployed and jumped at the chance to do something useful.
But soon the influx was so great that the four of them could not cope with the workload and before long the old team was back together again, ten engineers with the whole spectrum of skill and experience between them.
Within six months the business had outgrown their garages and a small factory premises was acquired, much to the relief of Barry's wife, Jennifer who could now reach her washing machine once more without having to fight her way past a minefield of broken machinery.
On a rare weekend off in the spring, Barry mowed the lawn while Jennifer weeded and hacked back last year's dead growth. The boot of the BWM was full of rich smelling greenery and Barry headed for the Civic Amenity Site. Old Tommy came out to greet him with a smile and shook his hand warmly. He even helped Barry to carry the black sacks up the rickety ladder.
The car boot finally empty, Barry took a nostalgic look inside the Metals Container. His experienced eye took in two lawnmowers, a vacuum cleaner and a couple of record player turntables. He turned to Tommy and said, 'What a waste!'