UNDERGRADUATE PAGE
The Sorcerer's Apprentice
By PETER BLOCKEY (University of Edinburgh)
THE bread-and-butter machine stood at the far end of the long counter, against the wall, on a large table of its own, and periodically discharged its functions under the capable hands of the assistant supervisor. This much was to be observed from the hot-plate, where I usually worked, and some weeks were to pass before I finally became more closely acquainted with it.
The reasons for my being in the canteen at all are, of course, adequately summed up in the words " vacation work." In fact, so integral a part of student life has vacation work become that one may no longer expect even the freshmen to express incredulous amusement when assured, for example, that such- and-such has been earning fabulous amounts at some outlandish occupation. And so well organised is it that one would be hard put to it to discover a holiday-task which could startle the most maidenly aunt, let alone the familiars of the common- room. The hold which national economy exercises upon us is now so well recognised by employers and exchanges that they are not merely ready to meet us with neatly organised lists of openings, rates of -pay, dates, deductions and divers directives, but are able to face us weeks in advance with firmly-stated needs.
For the individual himself the uneasy anticipation of each new job is still tempered by a dash of the exhilaration which will always accompany the student leaving the arms of his Alma Mater, even as it must have accompanied Adam, when, over-burdened. with knowledge of a. quite impractical nature, he quitted the portals of Paradise to eat bread in the sweat of his brow. Thus to me, a provincial, a fresh facet of London life was revealed when I found that casual labour is so thoroughly canalised and regulated, and it was with delight almost that I found myself, desperately short of money, one of a heterogeneous crew lined up outside the back door of the Loamshire- Hotel at nine o'clock one crystal winter morning. This was not without a preliminary skirmish with the door- keeper, which provided me during the long wait that followed with food for reflection on the constancy of that gentleman's, characteristics wherever he may be found.
But in due course "temporaries" were sorted from "casuals" and the staff engager's interview completed—a lightning assess- ment of character here, surely to be seen only in the man born and bred a big-city dweller. Thence to the canteen manageress, and, once taken on as counter-hand, on to the staff medical department. More waiting and more character-study, this time starched and aseptic—starched apron, starched manners; aseptic atmosphere, aseptic approach. And, at last, work. Sweep and mop the floor; stamp the meal card of each waitress coming in—for this was the female can- teen. Gradually, over the days, one realised that there was more to the job than one had at first supposed, and it was possible to piece together the different levels of operation. In institutions of this size it is never possible to predict how and to what extent local taboos will apply. One desirable field of activity was certainly denied the humble standing of the tem- porary workers. That was the operation of the bread-and- butter machine. My hour was to come, however. After some weeks I was put on duty at seven each morning. As I lived alone, without an alarm-clock, it was a gamble whether I made it, but on the first day I was only ten minutes late, and discovered the canteen pleasantly quiet. Lack of Work in such establishments is no excuse for idleness, and in no time at all I had been whisked off and put to work the machine. This was my first intimate acquaintance with it, and at close quarters it made a quite frightening impression. It consisted of a long rack to hold a four-pound loaf, and a knife-edged wheel fully two feet in diameter, which revolved exactly after the fashion of a bacon-slieer. It possessed a massive fly-wheel and a switch housing large enough for a tube train, and was evidently of great age.
It was the work of moments to insert a loaf and press the appropriate green button. Slowly, slowly, the menacing disc began to turn. At length one slice of buttered bread fell away, and soon another, then another, till, the machine at last in full production, a stream of buttered slices showered down a small metal chute. Almost before there was time to stack these neatly on a waiting tray, the loaf was done, and a quick leap to the red button brought the whole noisy monster to a halt as laboured and majestic as its start had been. A second loaf, inserted at leisure, followed the first; then a third; and a fourth. I luxuriated. This was a welcome change indeed from the usual weariness of pacing a hard floor in the hot and strident neigh- bourhood of the dish-washer, an automaton even more mon- strous than the bread-cutter.
But it was soon eight o'clock, and a white-clad figure appeared at my elbow. Apparently the rest of the staff were now on duty. Affected preoccupation proved quite unneces- sary, for, far from being discharged, I was relieved of the burden of recharging the rack as it became empty. But now the lifeless but all -too animated slave began to assume an inexor- able aspect. The red button no longer came into use between loaves. Recharging was done on the move, as it were, with an expertise and efficiency bred of long years in the trade. Soon, very soon, all question of stacking was gone. The stream of slices became a spate and the spate a flood. Matters were complicated by the fact that the rack did not bear the butt-end of a loaf flush with the cutting edge. Further, the buttering part of the assembly could not discriminate between the sides of a crust, and _plastered the first cut of a new loaf thickly with grease on the wrong side. Even worse, it was upset by the transition from a stumpy remnant of bread to a full yard's length, and at such times would deliver great irregular wads of butter mingled with misshapen masses of crust hacked out from the old and new ends.
The pile of slices mounted, some cut and spread to perfection, some a useless mixture of carbohydrate and fat. It mounted to the blade itself, and the nimblest movements of my fingers could do no more than keep the top of the pile clear, for there was by now constant danger of blockage at the business end of the apparatus. Unconcernedly at the other end the supply of ammunition was kept up.
At the height of the flood my chance came. I managed to convey above the din that buttering had given out. Only dry bread issued forth. Eyes and ears together had to be strained to catch the reply. " Quite right. We need some dry for the P soup." What had begun as an idle privilege had ended as a nightmare. I remember vaguely trying to stack, to sort and to relieve jams all at once, and two or three times being managerially reproved for failing in the last of these tasks.
I never cut bread again during my stay there, and I know this: if ever again I take the easy descent into the hot, noisy, Avernine bowels of that hotel, and if my designation is still " counter-hand," then counter-hand I shall assuredly remain.
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