Outlook: Grey and Unsettled - 1. The Forecast in Detail

The open door to the warehouse allowed some light in. It was dim, grey, and hesitant, but natural light nevertheless. It made a change from the harsh artificial glow of the overhead panels. The greyness of the daylight matched the scruffy overalls worn by the warehouse operatives. One of them, Fred, threw a box into the waiting Transit van. It hit the floor with a satisfying thud. The noise alerted another operative who stuck his head out from another aisle.

“Hey! Watch it. Those are fragile. Didn't you see the warning signs on the box?”

Fred wiped his forehead with his sleeve – it had been a long, hard morning's work.

“Sorry, Joe. That mass meeting we had yesterday, it's got me all shook up. Never heard the word 'deregulation' before then. Why do we need competition? How long we been providing a service? Ages. We're good, we're reliable. Nobody wants cheap foreign imports. It gets me so angry.”

Joe leant wearily against the warehouse racking. He'd been at this game far too long.

“Yeah, I know where you're coming from. I'm pissed off as well. I mean, who's guaranteeing our jobs? And our pensions. Wouldn't be surprised if there's a strike ballot soon. It won't help customer relations if we ship damaged goods.”

Fred, the younger of the two, sighed. “Yeah, you're right. 'specially if we'll have to fight to keep the customers we have. Fancy a cuppa? I'm gasping.”

“Why not?”

Leaving everything as it was, they headed off in search of tea.

The staff canteen at Merryweather's was dull – grey, uninviting, with trestle tables and hard plastic chairs. Joe was staring out of the window at the driving rain with a glum expression on his face. Another cold, dismal day.

“How come we never get any of the good stuff?” He slurped his tea noisily. “Just think – when I retire, I'll be able to have my own weather.”

Fred shrugged. “You've been here longer than I have. Suppose it's all the leftovers – the overstocks, date-expired, remaindered. You ever seen sunshine remaindered?”

“Hnh. As if. It wouldn't hurt them to give us the odd sunny day. Ever since the new management came in, it's been rain. Cost cutting, or something. Think how good it'd be for staff morale if we had some sun. Me, I'd settle for sunny intervals with a few showers thrown in. I'm not fussy.”

“Bloody weather.”

Their perfectly synchronised comment made both men laugh briefly, before the gloom descended once more. They were joined by Fred's partner, Wilf, who was clutching a large bacon sandwich.

“God, I'm ready for this.” He took a large bite, rescuing the brown sauce that oozed over the side with his tongue. “Don't let anyone tell you the chilled section is easy to work in. It's not.”

Fred nodded sympathetically. “I noticed there was a big order for snow.”

“Snow? Some idiot's asked for a blizzard by the beginning of next week. I mean … This isn't some mass-produced, synthetic import we're dealing with. This is a high-quality product with all natural ingredients.”

“Indeed.” Joe slammed his mug down on the table for emphasis. “Good stuff takes time to make. I bet none of our competitors guarantee each and every flake will be different. Created by artists they are.”

The three men continued to grumble until their break came to an end. They went back to work still grumbling.

A couple of months later, the three men were sitting having lunch in the canteen. It was raining outside, though with the addition of a powerful gale this time. The windows were closed, but it was still like eating next to an energetic floor fan.

Fred stretched out a hand to secure his pork pie before it took off in a particularly strong gust. Wilf was huddled over his mug of tea, trying to make his lanky frame less of a target for the wind.

“Which idiot overstocked on gales? We've never had gales before. Wind, yes. Not like this though.”

Sitting opposite them, Joe put his cheese and pickle sandwich down. He peered outside.

“I remember Ian from Sales saying high winds weren't selling very well this year. Something about being undercut by some cowboys offering foreign winds on the cheap.”

Fred cast a professional eye over the way the trees were bending in the wind. Some looked as though they wouldn't last the day.

“Any idea what category it is?”

Wilf had spent time in the air mail department and knew his winds. He fished a pair of binoculars out of his trouser pocket.

Fred raised an eyebrow. “Why d'you carry those around all the time?”

A half shrug. “You never know when something interesting might come up.” Wilf focussed on the horizon in search of the barcode. It took longer than usual because of the rain. “Finally! It's a … ten.”

There was a short silence. Fred spoke first. “I thought those were special order only?”

Joe snarled in the back of his throat. “Some bastard probably sent it back. That bunch of fly-by-nights who've opened up on the High Street were offering tropical storms at less than cost price. The fool probably thought they sounded sexier, more Technicolor.”

A passing female cashier overheard the last sentence or two. “Ooh … That's the new shop. Huracan, isn't it? I love their colour scheme – so vibrant. It makes a really great change after all this miserable grey. I went in there the other day to buy a portion of hot sunshine. Thought I deserved a little treat as it was on special offer. The salespeople are all friendly, and they smile.”

This stunned the three men into a silence which continued until it was time to return to work.

The next day was foggy. The murk seeped in everywhere, rendering everyone and everything indistinct. The grey of their overalls merged into the background. Finally, in the interests of safety, management ordered a stiff breeze to move the fog out into the surrounding area. Fred and Wilf took the opportunity to visit the canteen. To their surprise, Joe was already there, demolishing a plate of beans on toast.

He looked up. “What? I know this place like the back of my own hand.”

The other two shrugged and sat down with their tea.

Wilf looked at Fred with affection. “You remember that fog we first met in?”

“Yeah. It was a beauty. All swirling patterns with tendrils and such, and there you were, a mysterious shape, drifting in and out of view.”

Joe stared at both of them. “You're mad. You went out courting in fog?”

Wilf laughed a little self-consciously. “It was a game the local TV network thought would be fun. The idea was if you were meant to be together, you'd somehow gravitate towards each other. No being distracted by appearance, chat-up lines. Just simple attraction. Didn't last long 'cause they found it too hard to film. Pity.”

“OK …” Joe chewed noisily. “Bad news 'bout the sales figures this morning.”

Gloom descended once more.

Fred leant across the table. “You know, I heard our competitors were resorting to dirty tricks.”

“Why do they need to do that? They're already winning hands down.” Joe picked at his teeth.

“Tom says he's found boxes in the warehouse tampered with. Pink rain.”

A gasp from Wilf beside him.

“I know. It's shocking, love. And rainbow-coloured mist, he said.”

“Don't know what the world's coming to.” Joe pushed his empty plate aside. “Dog eat dog, it is. Though …” He paused for a moment. “I do like a bit of yellow. Bright, sunshine yellow. Wouldn't want it all the time, mind, just every now and again. Enough to lift the spirits.”

They all stared out at the low cloud and drizzle that replaced the fog.

“Yeah, I'm with you there.” Fred carefully drained the last of his tea, trying to avoid swallowing the tea leaves. “For me, it's blue rather than yellow though. You know, a small patch of blue sky encased in grey, is lovely. A real treat.”

Wilf had aspirations to be one of the in-house designers. He felt obliged to defend Merryweather's signature colour.

“I like our palette. It's cool, restrained. Very tasteful.”

Fred smiled to himself. This was one of his partner's favourite topics. “So, Wilf, how many different greys do we use in our products?”

“Well, there's plain grey, textured grey, light grey …” Wilf continued on until he reached thirty. “And that's not including the specials. You know, the shades with ice sparkles, drip effects, ripples, and all that.”

The other two men looked across the table at each other and tried not to snigger.

Joe looked at his watch. “Back to work for us, lads.”

They went.

Back in the warehouse, Joe and Fred hardly needed to use the forklift any more. It was all small packages they could retrieve by hand nowadays.

Fred looked at the silver-grey box he'd just put into his basket. “The party range is doing pretty well, I suppose.”

The pale grey umbrella decorations on the packaging showed it to be the Surprise Drenching, a popular model.

“Yeah. But how many of those do we have to sell to make up for the big ticket items?”

On the High Street, Huracan had been joined by other foreign-owned shops which were eating into Merryweather's business.

Joe inspected the slim packet he held which contained a Portable Fog Patch. Another party range item.

“We've sold nothing like enough snow and ice over the winter. Or even frost.”

Fred glowered. “Those sharks at Ullr grabbed most of the business. Who cares the customers were snowed in for weeks on end? Several of them lost their jobs over it. Ullr didn't give a toss.”

“Yeah. Trading standards should be involved. Selling cheap, dangerous junk like that shouldn't be allowed. Customers don't know what they're getting.”

“And the instructions aren't in English.” Joint shaking of heads.

The two men continued loading the grey-liveried Transit van until a shout from Fred stopped everything.

“Hurrah! Summer's here.” He appeared from one of the aisles brandishing an order form. “Look! A large order for thunder. 'bout time too.”

Joe hurried over to inspect it. “First of the season.” He looked at the customer's name. “Hnh. A least one of our older clients is staying with us.”

Then Fred's face fell. “Maybe we shouldn't get too excited … Just remembered, Wilf told me there's a branch of Fulgura opening soon.”

“Who?”

“You know … That Greek chain. Or are they Italian? Well, whichever. They sell flashy stuff, lightning mostly. I imagine they'll be stocking thunder as well. A Zeus in-store concession or something.”

More gloom slid in through the warehouse door.

Fred roused himself. “Well, we'd better make sure the customer gets the best quality we stock. No hollow, distant rumbles round here.”

“Yeah.” Joe perked up. “We'll need the forklift for those.”

Joe reserved the forklift for himself. Senority had to mean something. They worked for several minutes, getting the right number of boxes down.

Joe was puzzled. “Something's not right. Those boxes aren't heavy enough.”

Fred used his box cutter to open one of them up. It was empty except for a crate of used retsina bottles and a note:

Hey, ittiménoi. Stealing your thunder was so easy, it was pathetic. Come and get some proper Greek thunder at Fulgura, your lightning-fast supplier of choice. Ta léme argótera. Haha.

“The thieving toads!”

Joe grabbed hold of the note and read it slowly. When he looked up, the light of battle was in his eyes.

“Right, you go to the canteen and get whoever you can. I'll gather enough large-grain hail and freezing sea fret to make the bastards wish they'd never left home.”

“Yeah. We'll teach them a lesson.”

Joe nodded. “Oh, yes. And we'll win. Just you see.”