Stan Hill wheeled his bicycle out through the back door of his semi-detached council house, shut and locked the door behind him, stooped to put on his cycle clips, and pulled a cloth cap onto his balding head. He wheeled the old bicycle round to the front of the house, mounted, and set off on the two-mile ride to the factory. He performed this ritual, just as he had every working day for the last thirty-seven years.

He turned into the main driveway of the factory and was passed by a Mercedes. He didn’t look up since he knew the driver of the car was Mr Day, the Managing Director of the company. While Mr Day parked his glossy vehicle in the reserved parking place by the front entrance, Stan was chaining his bicycle in the racks at the rear of the factory.

Stan walked round to the front entrance. As he passed the receptionist’s office, he saw the back of Mr Day in his smart grey suit disappearing up the stairs. Stan took his card and clocked in. It was 7.43 a.m. As usual, Stan was early.

Stan’s office was on the ground floor, adjacent to the factory. He passed inside, removed a white coat and hat from the peg on the door, replaced them with his overcoat and cloth cap. He put on the white coat and hat, picked up his clipboard, and set off into the factory.

He passed another man, much smaller and older than himself, much closer to retirement, who had just arrived. He wore a suit that had seen better days, and carried a brown briefcase.

“Good morning, Mr Marco,” said Stan.

“Good morning, Stan.” Mr Marco, the Factory Manager, disappeared into his own office.

Stan Hill, the day-time Factory Supervisor made his way to the factory floor where he met Ferrari, the night-time Supervisor. They exchanged a few words; then, as Ferrari went off duty, Stan took over. He did a quick inspection of the 26 cone machines and 9 wafer machines, noted that all was well, then moved on to the mixing room.

Krispie Foods Limited was the main producer of ice cream cones and wafers in the country. Nevertheless it was a small company and its recent attempts to enter the chocolate wafer biscuit market had so far not been very successful. The company had recently been taken over by an American giant and hoped to diversify its products further.

The staff on the factory floor consisted of mixers, machine minders, packers and engineers.

The mixers mixed up the paste according to the required recipe. Surprisingly there are several different types of cone and wafer, varying not just in size, but also in taste. The recipe, consisting mainly of flour, sugar, water and a little oil, plus either egg powder or lecithin to bind them, could be varied by adjusting the quantities of these main ingredients, or by adding colouring or flavouring. They mixed the paste in large vats and the paste was pumped to the machines through a series of pipes.

The machines were huge gas-fired ovens. Paste was squirted in measured amounts into moulds that rotated slowly through the flames and back to the front of the machine where special levers pushed the cones or wafers from the mould onto a conveyor belt, where the packers waited.

 The machine minders made sure the machines were running smoothly and at the right temperature and also did minor repairs on the spot. However, for more major repairs, a machine would have to be shut down and the engineers called in.

Stan was responsible for making sure that everyone did their job properly and that the factory ran smoothly and efficiently. He also had to make a daily report to Mr Marco. Stan always performed his duties with diligence, and maintained a high rate of production. He had joined the workforce as a machine minder, but had been promoted to Supervisor sixteen years ago.

Stan had been working for about twenty minutes and was inspecting the paste-making when he heard a call on the tannoy system, “Calling Stanley Hill. Stanley Hill, please report to reception.”

Stan started to move, but thought to himself, Why does Veronica always call me Stanley? Why not Stan, or even Mr Hill? He felt irritated by the use of the longer form of his name.

When he turned the corner approaching reception, he saw a tall, fair-haired young man seated near the reception desk. The young man jumped to his feet and introduced himself, “Good morning, Sir. I’m Des Thomas, your temporary assistant.”

Stan shook Des’ extended hand. “Good morning, I’m pleased to meet you. Would you like to follow me?”

“Well, Des,” Stan said, as the two of them sat down in his office, “you’re not exactly going to be my assistant. I think Mr Brearley must have told you wrong. You’re going to be spending time in all the departments – on the factory floor, in the warehouse loading lorries, and in the sales office. How long are you with us?”

“For ten weeks, Sir.”

“Less of the ‘Sir’, please. Call me Stan.”

“I’m on my vacation from Uni. Mr Brearley took me on for some work experience, but I was quite sure that he told me I would be your assistant. Anyway, I’m happy to do whatever you like.”

“First of all, I’ll tell you some of the history of this company.” Stan loved to spend time talking, and here was a golden opportunity to sit and tell some tales to the newcomer. “This company has been in existence for nearly fifty years now. It was started up by Mr Marco and his brother, Luciano, who died ten years ago. Mr Marco, the Factory Manager – that’s his office over there – is really Mr Marco Andreotti, but everyone calls him Mr Marco. He and his brother came from Italy soon after the war finished, and set up a company ‘Superior Wafers’. The company was very small in those days and most of the workers were Italians immigrants. But in 1961 the company was taken over by Krispie Foods. Krispie itself has recently been taken over by an American giant. Mr Marco was kept on, but he’s no longer got any real power. He’s nearing retirement now, and will soon be forgotten. He built up this company – sweated and toiled only for others to reap the benefits. I’ve been here thirty seven years myself, and seen some changes. Things are different now, not like they used to be...”

Stan rambled on for several minutes, reminiscing about the old days and rueing the changes. After talking for nearly half an hour, with occasional questions from Des, Stan finished telling his history of the company. “I’ll show you round now, if you like,” he said, “but first of all we must find you a white hat – company regulations you know. We didn’t use to bother in the old days, but since the Health and Safety at Work Act, it’s been a government rule, and the company must conform. Not that there’s much on my head that could do any harm!” Stan ran his fingers through his few remaining locks, put on his own hat, and found a spare one in his drawer, which he passed to Des.

The tour started in the factory where Des found the stifling heat hard to bear. Then they moved on to the warehouse where Stan introduced Des to Bill Avey, the Transport Manager, a small stocky man with red hair and a freckly face. He also met the two warehouse workers, Alvin the tall dark West Indian and Georgio, the diminutive Italian who was always smiling.

They passed on to Quality Control, where a woman called Donna worked alone. Her job was to test random samples of the production for taste and weight, and also to repack the contents of damaged cartons.

Finally, they moved on to the office area, where several middle-aged women and a few younger women and men worked at various tasks of ordering stock, sales, invoicing, secretarial, and so on. Des noticed the names on several doors around the perimeter of the main office area: ‘Mr Day, Managing Director’, ‘Mr Brearley, Personnel’, ‘Mr Crawley, Sales Manager’, and ‘Mr Simmonds, Production Manager’.

“Fancy a cup of tea?” Stan asked Des. “We’ll go down to the staff canteen.”

They made their way down the front stairs, past reception, and turned right into the staff canteen.

While they drank tea, Stan changed the subject of the conversation. Apart from his work, which consumed most of his time during the weekdays, he had one other passion in life – cricket. “Do you play cricket, Des? We’re always looking for new talent in the company team. We play most Saturdays and Sundays in the summer. Well, not me, I don’t play anymore. It’s my leg, you know.” He pointed to his left leg, but no explanation was needed. Des had already noticed Stan’s limp as they toured the factory. “I’m the umpire these days.”

After a pause, Des replied to Stan’s question. “Yes I do as a matter of fact, and I’d love to play for the company.”

“That’s settled then. I’ll see Joe Blair, the captain – he’s one of our machine minders – and make sure he gives you a game next weekend. Do you bat or bowl?”

“I like to open the batting, if that’s possible.”

During the ten weeks that Des spent at Krispie Foods, he got to know Stan Hill well. Though he didn’t work alongside Stan most of the time, he used to spend his tea and lunch breaks in the company of the older man. He became fascinated with the character of the man dedicated to only two things in life – his work and cricket.

Des learned that Stan lived alone. He had never been married, and had lived most of his life with his mother who had died about six years ago. Stan had been devoted to his mother and it had been a bitter blow when she had passed away suddenly after suffering a massive heart attack. Stan was not an emotional man, but he had grieved at the loss of his beloved mother and had even been off work for a couple of weeks.

Apart from cricket, his work was now his life. He was meticulous in his routine. Every weekday, rain or shine, summer or winter, he was up at precisely 6.30 a.m. He had his breakfast, shaved, washed and dressed, and by 7.30 was pulling his cloth cap over his head and setting off on his old black bicycle. You could set your watch by Stan as he went through the motions every morning.

Similarly he had a routine every evening. The only times he broke his routine were if there was an evening cricket match to umpire, or if there was a Test Match to watch on the television.

Stan was about five foot nine inches tall, and bony. He said he always ate well, but his appearance belied this. It seemed clear that, since his mother’s death, he has not looked after his body well. His hair had once been a mousey-brown colour, but was now turning grey around the edges, and had almost disappeared from his balding pate. Stan used to be a promising slow left-arm bowler and, at number seven or eight, had been a strong hitter of the ball who had often scored a quick fifteen or twenty runs to help the company team towards a winning total. But a cycle accident had cut his playing days short. He had almost lost his left leg when it had become trapped between his bicycle and the car’s front bumper. The leg had been saved, but he had been left with a permanent limp. His playing days over, Stan had become the team’s regular umpire. Stan, now 54, looked at least ten years older.

Des visited Stan’s house once. He had been walking home from work when he caught up with Stan wheeling his bicycle – he had a flat tyre. “I’ll walk home with you, Stan,” volunteered Des. Stan was glad of the company.

When they arrived, he asked Des in for a cup of tea. Des was not surprised at the austere appearance of the house, cold and bare, and lacking a woman’s touch. Everywhere there were trophies that Stan had accumulated from his playing days; and books, and other cricket memorabilia, including old black and white photographs of his past cricketing heroes. Pride of place over the mantelpiece was given to a framed photograph of Stan’s hero, Denis Compton, in action against the 1947 South Africans. A very proud eight year-old Stan had met the great man with the Brylcreem-slick hair and had asked him to sign the photograph, and he had agreed!

Des watched Stan each day as he went about his work. He was as meticulous about his duties at Krispie Foods as he was with his daily routine at home, and there was nothing about ice cream cone and wafer production that Stan didn’t know. If he inspected the paste making and the paste was a little thinner or a little darker in colour than usual, Stan knew.  When inspecting the machines, if one of them was too hot and likely to burn the production, or not hot enough to cook the cones, Stan knew. Stan was always quick to put things right. He was also quick to reprimand one of the workers if his or her hat was not straight, or if they didn’t take enough care when packing the cones. Stan was very good at his job, and everyone knew it.

He was also an excellent umpire. He wore a smart white coat with a white hat. He always had six pebbles in his coat pocket to count the balls of the over. He was a very fair umpire, and always carefully considered his decisions before raising his finger or saying, “Not out.” If there was a close lbw, or a dubious caught behind, he always gave the batsman the benefit of the doubt. The players, both home team and opponents, all respected Stan.

The highlight of the year was always the end of season match between Management and Workers, but Stan was always unbiased towards either side. Whether it was Mr Simmonds or Ferrari batting, when appeals were made he always made the same cool, calculated decisions. Whether it was Bill Avey or Alvin bowling, he watched for overstepping of the crease and called “No ball” when required.

Des enjoyed his ten summer weeks at Krispie Foods, not least the cricket. He spent two weeks in each of the departments – factory floor, warehouse, loading lorries, sales, and invoicing. He sweated with the others in the factory, packing cones from one of the machines. He joined Alvin and Georgio in the warehouse where he had a great time driving the fork-lift truck. However, he hated loading the lorries and was glad when his two weeks there were over. It was very hard work, but what he disliked most about the job was the unpleasantness of the lorry drivers. It seemed that every other word they uttered was a swear word. Sales and invoicing were a bit of a drudgery, but useful experience.

At the end of the ten weeks, Des said his goodbyes to everyone. He was pleasantly surprised when Mr Brearley called him into his office to offer him a permanent job once he had completed his Business Studies degree. “I’m not sure which department it will be yet,” said Brearley, “but I can assure you it will be some sort of junior managerial position with good prospects for the future. “Don’t worry, you won’t be asked to load any more lorries,” he added, laughing. Des was pleased to accept the offer and looked forward to the following year.

            *                      *                      *                      *                      *

When Des rejoined the company, he was delighted to be appointed assistant to Stan. He spent a pleasant two months working with the older man and learning the job. He also joined the company cricket team and performed well with the bat, averaging more than 40.

After two months, it was time once again for the annual Management versus Workers match. The Workers batted first and made a creditable 157 for 6 in their forty overs. Des opened the batting for the Management team, with Mr Simmonds. They made a good start, making 24 for the first wicket before Stan adjudged Mr Simmonds ‘caught behind’ to a ball that had clearly hit his forearm. Mr Brearley and Mr Day were also given out to dubious lbw decisions. Des thought Stan must have been having a bad day.

Des was still there on 89 not out, batting with number eleven, Bill Avey, when the Management team needed just five runs to win off the final over. Ferrari came in to bowl, the ball hit Des on the pad and flew through to the wicketkeeper who appealed for a ‘caught behind’. Des was dumbfounded when Stan raised his finger.

As they walked towards the pavilion, Stan was elated. “How does it feel to be unfairly dismissed?” he taunted.

Des was shocked as he replied, “You mean you knew I didn’t hit that ball?”

The following Monday, Des learned that Stan had been made redundant the day before the cricket match – ‘early retirement’ they called it – and that he had been appointed to take over Stan’s job. He recalled Stan’s words, “Unfairly dismissed”, and felt very sad at the demise of his friend.