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鈥 opinion
that it was an arranged marriage. In fact it became legend
that Mother Farquharson and her 鈥榝riend鈥 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鈥 by
5鈥 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 鈥淚t is never too late to
be what you might have been鈥, the Reekers looked away
until the writing was safely covered with a treacle-thick
coating of nicotine.
Mrs Foncey seethed 鈥淚 don鈥檛 get paid enough
for this shite鈥 puffs of smoke punctuating her every
word.
Fat Foncey stopped scraping his beard and grimaced 鈥淎ye鈥e
reek what ye sew.鈥
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 鈥減resents
from the childer abroad.鈥 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 鈥淚鈥檒l drink you, me girl鈥.
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 鈥 five jumpers. Having a reek 鈥
ten jumpers. Making dinner at home 鈥 forty jumpers.
She was obsessed. Noreen鈥檚 life had been timed and
corrupted by 鈥楶roduction Targets鈥 and 鈥楾ime
Study Management鈥 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鈥檛 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鈥檚
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, 鈥淚鈥檝e got ye鈥.
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.
鈥淭he colours were a clever ruse,鈥 he praised
himself. 鈥淎ll I had to do was match the COLOURED stickers
to the WHITE replacement stickers. Yes, only the replacements
are white now, but I wouldn鈥檛 expect any of youse
to understand鈥. Farq basked in his own middle-management
glory as the transients sniggered 鈥淪ticker Nicker鈥.
Noreen鈥檚 shame poured out of her like smoke from a
Reeker.
鈥淣ot only have you pocketed 拢11.96 from this
company, but you have stolen four hours and nine minutes,
which you鈥檒l work off before you get your things and
go!鈥 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鈥檚 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鈥檛 ever been a gossip. But it鈥檚 never
too late.
