Open Writing

Alan had never been to the “Weevilry”.

He had written to them, phoned them and received calls and correspondence from them. In addition he had occasionally been visited by a sales representative, and even received luncheon invitations. These he politely turned down for the simple reason that a two-hour lunch break of the kind that would ensue took him away from his work, and all his days were busy in the thriving plastic box making company for whom he worked as a technical liaison officer.

The “Weevilry” was the affectionate nickname given by Alan and his colleagues to the specialist testing company to whom new products were sent for a number of trials before full-scale production commenced. As the boxes were mainly for storage of food, the main test concerned whether weevils could find their way past the seals. Both the requirement and the method of testing were under Ministry regulation and control, in those days the ministry in question being the “Ag and Fish”. Alan’s employers were very responsible people and had some self-inflicted requirements exceeding those of the Ag and Fish, and these extras were added to the specification given to OmniTest, the real name of the “Weevilry”.

Alan was leafing through his morning post at the office when the internal telephone rang.

“Mr. Downland, you have a visitor from OmniTest. A Mr Ireland. He says sorry he doesn’t have an appointment but it is important and he won’t take up much of your time.’’

At first Alan was reluctant to see the unexpected visitor because of the interference with his daily routine, but he thought it might be well to talk to him.

“Send him up please Maria.’’

So Geoff Ireland was shown into the lift, and there on the first floor Alan was waiting to meet him. Geoff Ireland had not been in the job long, and Alan and he had never met face to face.

“You’re younger than I had imagined,” said Geoff. “And you’re older than I thought,” came the reply.

Alan showed Geoff into the office. “Would you like tea or coffee?” said Alan.

“Coffee please, milk and one sugar if that’s OK.’’

“No trouble,’’ said Alan, picking up a phone. “Hannah would you bring us two coffees, my usual black and a milk and one.’’

“Mr. Downland, I’ve not been in this job long,’’ said Geoff Ireland. “From my predecessor’s notes I see that you don’t accept invitations to lunch.’’

“That is so,’’ said Alan. “I usually lunch in the management canteen, which takes an hour. If I lunch outside the works that takes two hours and I can’t spare the time.’’

“Actually I wasn’t going to invite you to lunch,’’ Geoff said. “My directors would like you to visit the Weevilry. We know you like our work.’’

Alan restrained a chuckle. “You know about our nickname then?”

“Yes. It causes a few laughs.’’

Alan now allowed himself to laugh. Surprisingly he found himself accepting the invitation. “Ah well,’’ he said “all work and no play would make Alan a dull boy. Yes, I’ll come.’’

So a date was set for the visit.

When the appointed day arrived Alan had no difficulty in finding his way to the Weevilry. The premises were on an industrial estate at the edge of town, surrounded by woodlands. He was expected. A commissionaire greeted him by name and showed him to a parking place. Geoff was waiting there and led him to an office.

“I hope I’ve done the right thing,’’ said Geoff as they settled into chairs. “I’ve already ordered coffees.’’

A secretary arrived with a tray. Alan was handed a coffee with milk and one sugar. “You remembered,’’ he said, smiling. “I think this is going to be a good day.’’

“We certainly hope so,’’ said Geoff warmly. “Do you know, Alan, I am not sure of your job title.’’

“Product liaison officer,” answered Alan.

“I used to have a similar job here,’’ said Geoff.

“Thought so.’’

“Why?’’

“Well I’ve heard you talking about plastic materials like an expert during phone conversations.''

“Yes I was on the technical side,’’ said Geoff. “I was offered a job as a sales representative with a fast track to promotion. Our directors thought I had the people skills to improve our order book. I was reluctant, but I took the job. Now I’m chief sales director, and the order book has grown. So too has my salary, and the size of my company car. I don’t like to merely sit in an office. I still like to go out and meet clients.’’

He proceeded to tell Alan something of his background. He had obtained a degree in materials technology, studying the “hard way’’. “Not even a redbrick university. Evening classes.’’

Alan discovered they had studied at the same local technical college.

As he was shown around the Weevilry Alan was impressed by the thoroughness of the various tests that were being run. Secateurs were set up to snip seemingly endless reels of garden sisal. Watches were being mechanically dipped to check if they were waterproof. Hair dryers were running continuously while being subjected to surges in he power supply.

“And now,’’ said Geoff. “A revelation. We do have weevils! Behold, the Weevilry!’’

Geoff pointed to a group of glass-fronted wall cabinets on the far side of the room. “That’s where your products are tested.’’

A young lady in a white lab coat was standing near one of the cabinets, reaching in through a sleeve handler. As Alan moved nearer he saw the weevils. A huger number of them, scurrying about among the plastic boxes which were being tested. There was food in the boxes, and a goo designed to be irresistible to weevils.

“And now Alan,’’ said Geoff when the tour was completed “will you accept an invitation to lunch?’’

Alan readily accepted. “They know not to expect me at work until late afternoon.’’

“Good,” said Geoff, “there’s a decent little pub a mile down the road. The Dawn Chorus. The landlord’s an RSPB man. Great painted sign. Cask conditioned English ales and guest beers. Chef likes to invent a brand new pie every week, but native, no exotic spices or funny sauces. We’ll go in my car.’’

Soon they were tackling with gusto a pheasant venison and nut pie, while quaffing Thomas Hardy bitter. The conversation was lively, and it wasn’t shop talk.

Alan paused to look out at the garden, which was filled with feathered visitors.

“I’m very interested in music,’’ said Geoff, regaining his attention. “I once bumped into a chap who said he was a music copyist. I asked him what he thought of when I said the word crotchet. ‘Let’s think,’ he replied. ‘How about no two copyists ever write a crotchet rest the same way?’.’’

“So he passed muster, then” said Alan, who was musical.

“I’ll say,” answered Geoff. “My wife’s very musical. She sings in the local choir.’’

“She has a beautiful voice?’’ ventured Alan.

“Oh yes,’’ came the reply. “What else, when she is called Carol?’’

Over another pint each of Thomas Hardy and strawberries and cream, sugared, with a little brandy, the conversation ranged over the great composers.

“Music sometimes seems to be talking,’’ said Geoff. “It’s a matter of catching what it is saying. Take the Brahms E minor cello sonata. What’s that trying to say?”

Alan thought for a moment, then his face lit up. “I have a mental picture of an old Greek philosopher surrounded by pupils listening with rapt attention as he announces some eternal verity.’’

“Right on the nail!’’ said Geoff enthusiastically.

When the time came to part with a handshake, they promised to keep in touch with one another, and occasionally to have outings with their wives to concerts.

Indeed they did keep in touch, and there were outings. Sometimes they did not hear from each other for quite a while, but when one did phome the other the first words were always the same. “Do you know, I was just thinking about you!”

No such thing as a free lunch? Oh yes, there is! There’s the treasure of friendship. Just reach out and take hold of it.

***

David Marsh says “Perhaps you recognize yourself or some of your friends in this story. Here are some of his friends, kindly human beings, encouragers and facilitators:-

Council gardener in park
David Benny
Hilary Insall
Chris Eyre
Peter Hinchliffe
Basheer Khan”