Iain Pears - Stone's Fall

'She'll take a dozen of them. Think of the effect of a single broadside. And these can fire once a minute. We think.'

'You think? I got the impression that everyone who worked here knew. I didn't think guessing was allowed.'

He looked a bit disconcerted by this. 'Well, you see, it's not the guns. We know they work. It's the gun control. The hydraulics. Anson will have an entirely new design. The trouble is . . .'

'You can't test it in advance too easily.'

He nodded. 'It's what I work on. I think it will be just fine. But if it isn't . . .'

'So, what are the other ones for? If twelve go on Anson , there must be another couple of dozen of those great big ones here.'

He shrugged. 'Who knows? It's not as if they tell us. But it's the same all over the yard. There's enough guns and plate and girders to build a battle fleet out of the spare parts, with more being made. But there are no more orders.'

'Who's they?'

'Scuttlebutt. Gossip. Talk in the pub. Who knows where these things come from? People are worrying about lay-offs, once Anson 's finished.'

'What about foreign orders?'

He shook his head.

'Perhaps they're being kept secret.'

He laughed. 'You don't know shipyards, sir. There aren't any secrets from the workers. Do you think there is anything that affects our jobs we don't know about?'

I looked thoughtfully at the vast pieces of metal lined up in that gigantic, chilly room, and shivered. It was calm in there, peaceful almost; it was impossible to connect the atmosphere with what those things were for, or what they could do.

'Tell me,' I said, 'perhaps you can help. I am looking for a man called James Steptoe. He works here, I believe.'

Fredericks' expression changed instantly. 'No,' he said shortly. 'He doesn't. Not any more.'

'Are you sure? I am certain . . .'

'He used to work here. He was dismissed.'

'Oh? Why?'

'Theft.' He turned away, and I had to grab him by the arm.

'I wish to speak to him.'

'I don't. Nobody likes a thief.'

'Nonetheless, I must talk to him. Ah. Here comes Mr Williams. Perhaps he will be able to tell me . . .'

'33Wellington Street. That's where he lives,' he said hurriedly. 'Please . . .'

'Not a word,' I whispered back.

And then Mr Williams came within earshot and that was the end of the conversation, but in some ways it was the most interesting part yet of my visit. A pity I hadn't had more time with the young man, who seemed serious and observant.

'I'm surprised you let me in there,' I remarked as we went back to the cab. 'I mean, I read in the newspapers all about spies trying to steal secrets about guns and things.'

Mr Williams laughed. 'Oh, steal away, if you wish. There is nothing you have seen which is so very secret. What a gun looks like tells you nothing. It is how the metal is made, how the hydraulics work, how it is aimed. That's where the true secrets lie. And we are careful about that. Except for the gun-metal part.'

'Why?'

He winked, and bent towards me conspiratorially. 'Because the Germans already know.'

'How come?' I asked, eager to hear a tale of espionage.

'Because they invented the process. We stole it from them .' He leaned back his head and chuckled. 'They're the best in the world at that, the Germans. Very advanced.'

'So you have spies in Germany?'

'Oh, good heavens no. Lord Ravenscliff had shareholdings. That is very much better. He had a substantial shareholding in Krupp's, the German steel company. Not in his own name, of course; through an intermediary bank in Hamburg. They were able to obtain whatever he wanted. And Schneider in France.'

I was astonished. I didn't think it worked like that at all. 'But secret processes from here are not learned by the Germans by the same methods in reverse?'

Mr Williams looked shocked. 'Of course not. His Lordship was an Englishman, and a patriot.'

Fair enough, I thought. On the other hand, what about that tale Seyd had told me, about building submarines for the Russians? How patriotic was that?

'So tell me, Mr Braddock,' the manager said as we headed back to the factory gate, 'what did you find most impressive about Beswick? Anson , I imagine.'

I considered. 'Certainly it is a staggering sight,' I said. 'Quite beyond belief, really. It was worth the journey just to see it. But, oddly, I do not think that was the most impressive. I think the fact that this yard exists, and can produce such a thing more remarkable still. The idea that anyone can organise this anthill of a place is the most surprising.'

I had said the right thing. Williams almost glowed at my words.

'That was Lord Ravenscliff's genius, and why the greatest compliment to his skill is to say he will not be missed. Do not misunderstand me,' he said with a smile as I raised an eyebrow. 'It is what he wanted. To create an organisation so perfect it could run by itself, or rather with only the managers, each of whom knows their business. I believe he succeeded.'

'How so?'

'The job of any company is to make as much profit as possible. As long as that is the main aim of the managers, then there is no need to direct them. They will, collectively, take the right decisions.'

'And you will soon find out whether that is the case.'

We had arrived by the gate. A cab, one of several, was waiting patiently to take me back into the centre of Newcastle. Williams courteously held the door for me as I got in.

'Indeed. It will be very interesting. Have a safe journey back to London. I hope you have enjoyed yourself.'

At eight o'clock, after a rapid meal, I left once more, this time walking away from the works and into the rows of houses to the west of the city centre. Mr James Steptoe lived somewhere in that rabbit warren. It was a dreary journey, into monotonous red-brick streets, each house exactly the same as the next, all built, I suspected, by the works and for the works. Each had a door and two windows facing the street. All the doors were green, all the windows brown. There were no trees, few patches of green, and surprisingly few pubs; I supposed that the works had intervened there as well and banned such places in order to keep its workforce sober and efficient. Or it was looking after its health, and acting responsibly. Take your pick.

But it was neat and well ordered, no doubt about that, and a few streets of newer houses showed signs of a different way of thinking. Curved porches, more fanciful roofs. Small enough, and mean enough, no doubt, but a place to live and be comfortable. There were churches and schools and shops, all laid out with thought and care. I had seen very much worse in the East End, which was a hellish, confused nightmare in comparison with this disciplined, uniform place which, if it was a barracks, at least allowed its occupants to pretend.

The road I was looking for was off a street, and off an avenue. All were named after imperial heroes and events of the not too distant past. I wondered how many of the inhabitants noticed after a while. Did it make their hearts swell with pride that they lived in Victoria Road? Did it make them work harder, or drink less for having a house in Khartoum Place? Were they better husbands and fathers because they walked to work along Mafeking Road, then into Gordon Street? Was Mr James Steptoe, I thought as I knocked on the door, a more respectable, patriotic Englishman for living at 33 Wellington Street?

Hard to tell. His mother, who answered the door, certainly looked respectable enough as she peered uncertainly at me. The trouble was, I could make out only a little of what she was saying; I supposed she was speaking English, but the accent was so thick she might almost have been another Serbo-Croatian anarchist. This was a problem I had not anticipated. Still, if I couldn't understand her, she seemed to understand me well enough, and invited me in, and showed me to the little parlour, kept for best. After a while James Steptoe came in, warily and cautiously; he was shaped rather like a bull, almost as broad as he was tall, with a thick neck emerging from his collarless shirt, and black hair covering his forearms where the sleeves had been rolled up. He had thick dark eyebrows, and a shadow of beard around his mouth. He looked like someone who played rugby, or worked down a mine rather than pushing pens and dockets.