A Very Small Strike

How it begins

Frank Bell placed the strike notice on the weighing-station window at eight fifty-nine.

At nine he went outside and became the picket line.

The notice said one worker was withdrawing his labor. It did not mention that the worker had also typed the notice, cleaned the window and borrowed the drawing pins.

Across the road, Winifred Cole raised the blind of her café. She watched Frank walk from one end of the hut to the other. The journey took seven steps.

'You look cold,' she called.

'I am making a point.'

'You can make it with tea.'

He accepted the mug but remained outside. Rules mattered. He had written them himself on the back of an old delivery sheet.

The first farmer arrived with a trailer at a quarter past nine.

'Are you open?'

'No.'

'You're here.'

'Exactly.'

Frank handed him the newspaper advertisement. The council sought a community-minded volunteer to operate the public weighbridge. Experience preferred. Expenses considered.

He had operated it for twenty-two years. He had expected to retire eventually. He had not expected the job to retire first.

The farmer read the advertisement twice.

'Could be a misprint.'

'Then they can print a correction.'

By ten there were four trailers in the road and a complaint about obstruction. Winifred brought out a chair.

'A picket line should be able to sit.'

'I don't want anyone thinking I'm on holiday.'

'Nobody who has seen you on holiday would make that mistake.'

She placed the chair beside him. From this angle, the hut looked smaller than the things it did: weighing crops, settling arguments, recording deliveries, letting drivers warm their hands.

A council car stopped. The man inside lowered his window.

'Mr Bell, surely we can discuss this without inconveniencing everyone.'

Frank looked at the waiting trailers. For once, inconvenience had made his work visible before he performed it.