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Chapter Two - Page 4 of 4

‘We get some right little crackers coming in here for their summer jobs I can tell you. Look at the jellies on that one. Hey,’ he pretended to address the girl below directly, ‘do you like chicken love? Because you can suck my cock – that’s fowl!’
He barked up into his visitor’s face, who raised a finger to wipe the fleck of spittle he’d felt land on his eyebrow.
‘Ah, it tickles me that joke. I get quite a few summer workers, students mostly. A lot of girls to work in the egg packing room directly below us. Less clumsy than cack-handed lads.’
‘How many full time staff members do you have then?’
‘Just Rubble – the system means that, more or less, we just leave the birds to it. Apart from him I’ve got a few part timers, who come in to collect the eggs. Let’s see...’ he raised a hand and his outstretched finger tapped the air. ‘One, two, three, four on that side table. Four in the packing room. Another three not on today. So altogether a nice round dozen including Rubble.’

They looked down at the top of Rubble’s head. His hair was roughly shorn to a length that allowed you to see the bony angles of his skull. It seemed to sink directly onto a pair of sharply sloping shoulders with no neck in between. The other staff seemed to have coagulated away from him and into their own little groups: part time employees, a few female students together, a mix of young lads playing cards and watched by a girl who kept tossing back her hair. But Rubble sat alone, reading some kind of comic.

‘He seems an interesting character,’ commented the visitor.
‘Rubble? That’s one way of describing him.’
‘Isn’t he a bit old to be reading comics?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t read them. Just flicks through looking at the pictures.’
‘You mean he’s illiterate?’
‘More or less. He tried to get into the army a few times. It was his dream. But the application forms defeated him. He just about understands his pay slip, but I have to give him cash since he doesn’t even have a bank account.’
‘Unusual for this day and age.’
‘You’re telling me. I think he has a savings account at the post office in the village. He goes every Tuesday morning just before nine o’clock to get his precious comics.’
‘And you say that caravan is his permanent home?’
‘That’s right. No radio, no TV – apart from the security monitors. Hasn’t a clue about life beyond the farm. Sometimes the students ask him stuff – who’s Prime Minister? Which team won the Premiership? He hasn’t a clue.’
The visitor shook his head, ‘There’s nowt as queer as folk.’
‘Aye,’ agreed the farm owner before continuing, ‘So you think your management trainees could learn some things from how I run this place?’

The suited man turned to address the farm owner. ‘Absolutely – the efficiency levels you’ve achieved here could teach the industrial chiefs of tomorrow some valuable lessons in people management. As you know, the business world is a competitive place. Every employee has to pull his weight. And I believe the way you’ve married technology with production here is most interesting. It certainly provides some fascinating pointers.’
The farm owner had been nodding enthusiastically, but not really taking the speech in.
‘So what about numbers?’
‘Well the amount of seminars I run varies. But on average I’d look to bring around sixteen management trainees here, say four times a year.’
‘And how much do other companies charge for this sort of thing?’
‘Well I pay the Bournville factory in Birmingham £20 per person and McVities in Manchester £18, to name just two.’
‘OK,’ said the farmer, walking over to his desk and picking up a calculator. ‘How about, with free tea and coffee in the canteen, £15 a head for an afternoon workshop here?’
The visitor considered this for a moment. ‘That equates to around £1000 each year. It shouldn’t be a problem.’
The farm owner beamed, ‘Great – I’ll hold that quote for a month.’
He handed his guest a business card and waited for one to be offered back, but his visitor just said, ‘Well, I won’t take up any more of your time.’
‘Do you have a business card I could take?’ asked the owner, a little tentatively.
The man made an act of patting the breast pocket of his jacket. ‘Do you know, I’m always doing this. I’ve left them at my office. Can I send you one in the post?’
The farmer owner raised his eyebrows and said, ‘How about a compliments slip or something like that?’
The visitor felt his neck grow a shade hotter. ‘Well normally I’ve got a stack of company brochures in the car – but it’s just been valeted, so everything’s in my office.’
Suddenly the roles of the questioner and questioned were being reversed, and it was the visitor’s turn to feel interrogated.
‘I have to be careful,’ said the farm owner, his eyes narrowing. ‘For all I know you could be from the animal liberation – and I’ve just shown you round my business.’
‘Hardly,’ the taller man casually laughed, trying to sound relaxed. ‘You’ve no worries on that count, I can assure you.’ But he knew the situation had slipped irrevocably.
Sure enough, the farm owner’s next comment confirmed his fears, ‘Well, if you could send me written confirmation of our agreement along with a brochure or some other proof of your management consultancy, I would appreciate it. Then we can arrange dates for the first workshop.’
‘No problem, and thanks for the tour.’
They shook hands and the owner showed him back down the stairs and outside to his car. The visitor climbed into the black BMW and started the engine, trying to look entirely at ease in the unfamiliar vehicle.

‘I look forward to hearing from you,’ said the owner. The visitor put the car into gear, praying he didn’t stall it. The engine responded instantly to the light pressure of his foot, and the vehicle surged up the slope. The driveway climbed sharply, then curved to the left around a screen of pine trees. In seconds the sheds were invisible, sunk into the ground and hidden by the evergreen branches. Only the tops of the bulk bins showed above the trees.

A mixture of emotions washed over him. First, to his annoyance, was the feeling of pleasure that driving the car caused. The cool, comfortable leather supporting his thin frame, the imperceptible sense of power beneath his hands and feet. He had to remind himself of the type of people who actually drove these vehicles; the pushy capitalist pigs, hogging the roads as if their choice of car made them superior to other drivers. He tossed the business card contemptuously on to the passenger seat, hooked a thin finger behind the knot of his tie and pulled it away from his throat.
The driveway reached the narrow country lane where a discreet sign read, ‘Embleton Farm. Private Property.’ He reached the head of the drive but, before turning the car right towards the motorway, he hesitated.

How stupid to have believed that he could pull off such an outrageous plan. Desperation had pushed him unprepared into the attempt. In retrospect it seemed inevitable he would fail – having no business card to exchange was the type of elementary mistake someone unfamiliar with the business world was bound to make. He banged the heel of his hand angrily on the dashboard; the last chance of prolonging his university career had probably just escaped him.
Without a farm to take his students round, setting up a module on the ethics of modern day food production would be impossible. His course options would remain focused solely on care of the elderly and, next term, the numbers of students in his lectures would, no doubt, drop again. This, he was painfully aware, left his department ever more vulnerable to closure when the expected budget cuts came.
He sat staring miserably into space, trying to imagine life if he lost his job as a lecturer. He found it impossible; after all he’d devoted himself to it for almost twenty years. Now the department he’d so carefully built from nothing was slipping from his grasp. Unless, unless...

The idea, fully formed and complete, popped unbidden into his head, like a demon appearing in a dream. His immediate reaction was one of incredulity at how he could have thought such a thing. A bitter laugh nearly escaped his lips. But the idea refused to go away. Stubbornly it squatted there, naked, obscene and motionless. Inviting him to examine it from every angle. Hardly wanting to, his mind’s eye began to scrutinise it. And he saw that it could just work. Telling himself that he wasn’t actually taking the idea seriously, he spun the wheel anti-clockwise and turned left towards the village.

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