the goals and was now looking at a hat-trick. I was keeping goal at the other end and had made a couple of brilliant saves, but otherwise it had been a quiet game for me.
Krabbe, the captain, placed the ball on the penalty spot, stood as if to compose himself for the kick, then turned and waved for me to come up and take it. He didn’t have to do that. It was almost unheard of. I jogged up the field, slammed the ball into the back of the net and we won five-nil, with C Priest on the scoresheet.
I’ve been on all sorts of courses while doing the job, and I have a certain amount of responsibility. My staff work long hours and are often exposed to danger. I ask them to do things, get into situations, which are above and beyond what an employer can normally expect of his workers. Until now I’d completely forgotten the Krabbe incident, but suddenly I couldn’t help thinking that his generous gesture had taught me more about manmanagement than all the training sessions and away days that I’d ever attended.
There was a message on the ansaphone when I arrived home. It was Rosie, thanking me for the drink, but the unspoken message was to thank me for not putting any pressure on her. I went to bed feeling reasonably happy. Totally confused, but reasonably happy.
There’s a tourist attraction on the southern edge of the city of Leeds called Thwaite Mills. It stands on an island in the River Aire as part of the city’s industrial heritage, preserved for posterity as a reminder of the days when work meant bending one’s back, producing something. The river turns a pair of water wheels, the water wheels rotate a series of shafts, and an ingenious arrangement of pulleys and belts transfer the power to various applications. Grinding, mixing and grading. In the nineteenth century barges would bring stone, corn, oilseed and logwood to the mill, and sail away laden with flour, china clay, chalk, dyestuff, putty and fuel oil. Nowadays the wheels only turn as a curiosity, when there is an audience, to demonstrate the inventiveness of our forbears.
The schoolchildren showed more interest in the mill than the teacher had expected. It was Friday afternoon and the weekend beckoned, but they listened politely to the guide, made notes and tickedboxes on the multi-choice questionnaire they’d been provided with. The place reeks of age, and it’s easy to imagine the bustle and hubbub when it was working at full speed: the pulleys spinning; the transmission belts flapping and beams of sunlight slanting through the airborne dust. Sacks would be filled, hoisted on to strong but aching shoulders and carried to the waiting boats in an endless procession.
The kids gathered round as the guide told them how the big, eighteen foot wheels were controlled, then peered over the handrail as he started to open the sluice and the black water churned as if by some unseen monster of the deep.
As the wheel creaked and groaned and the first paddle rose out of the water they thought it was a joke, played on them by the staff in a feeble attempt to keep them interested. It happened all the time. Or perhaps it was somebody’s left-over Guy Fawkes, tossed into the river rather than into the flames. When the streaming body lifted clear one or two girls giggled nervously, unsure of their first conclusions. When the head lolled over and they saw the bloated face and empty eye-sockets, there could be no doubt what it was, and the screaming started.
I heard it on the local news as I drove home from the office, Saturday lunchtime: ‘The body of a man found in the River Aire at Thwaite Mills is believed to be that of a local businessman who hasn’t beenseen for over two weeks.’ I used to work in Leeds and knew the location well. If he’d been in the river a fortnight he probably fell in somewhere near the city centre. Leeds Bridge was a good place for it. In my day it was all run-down warehouses near there, but now it has been redeveloped and turned into
Krabbe, the captain, placed the ball on the penalty spot, stood as if to compose himself for the kick, then turned and waved for me to come up and take it. He didn’t have to do that. It was almost unheard of. I jogged up the field, slammed the ball into the back of the net and we won five-nil, with C Priest on the scoresheet.
I’ve been on all sorts of courses while doing the job, and I have a certain amount of responsibility. My staff work long hours and are often exposed to danger. I ask them to do things, get into situations, which are above and beyond what an employer can normally expect of his workers. Until now I’d completely forgotten the Krabbe incident, but suddenly I couldn’t help thinking that his generous gesture had taught me more about manmanagement than all the training sessions and away days that I’d ever attended.
There was a message on the ansaphone when I arrived home. It was Rosie, thanking me for the drink, but the unspoken message was to thank me for not putting any pressure on her. I went to bed feeling reasonably happy. Totally confused, but reasonably happy.
There’s a tourist attraction on the southern edge of the city of Leeds called Thwaite Mills. It stands on an island in the River Aire as part of the city’s industrial heritage, preserved for posterity as a reminder of the days when work meant bending one’s back, producing something. The river turns a pair of water wheels, the water wheels rotate a series of shafts, and an ingenious arrangement of pulleys and belts transfer the power to various applications. Grinding, mixing and grading. In the nineteenth century barges would bring stone, corn, oilseed and logwood to the mill, and sail away laden with flour, china clay, chalk, dyestuff, putty and fuel oil. Nowadays the wheels only turn as a curiosity, when there is an audience, to demonstrate the inventiveness of our forbears.
The schoolchildren showed more interest in the mill than the teacher had expected. It was Friday afternoon and the weekend beckoned, but they listened politely to the guide, made notes and tickedboxes on the multi-choice questionnaire they’d been provided with. The place reeks of age, and it’s easy to imagine the bustle and hubbub when it was working at full speed: the pulleys spinning; the transmission belts flapping and beams of sunlight slanting through the airborne dust. Sacks would be filled, hoisted on to strong but aching shoulders and carried to the waiting boats in an endless procession.
The kids gathered round as the guide told them how the big, eighteen foot wheels were controlled, then peered over the handrail as he started to open the sluice and the black water churned as if by some unseen monster of the deep.
As the wheel creaked and groaned and the first paddle rose out of the water they thought it was a joke, played on them by the staff in a feeble attempt to keep them interested. It happened all the time. Or perhaps it was somebody’s left-over Guy Fawkes, tossed into the river rather than into the flames. When the streaming body lifted clear one or two girls giggled nervously, unsure of their first conclusions. When the head lolled over and they saw the bloated face and empty eye-sockets, there could be no doubt what it was, and the screaming started.
I heard it on the local news as I drove home from the office, Saturday lunchtime: ‘The body of a man found in the River Aire at Thwaite Mills is believed to be that of a local businessman who hasn’t beenseen for over two weeks.’ I used to work in Leeds and knew the location well. If he’d been in the river a fortnight he probably fell in somewhere near the city centre. Leeds Bridge was a good place for it. In my day it was all run-down warehouses near there, but now it has been redeveloped and turned into
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