This time, it was the turn of Best Friend 0.5(1).
The origin
of an elaborate and ornate clock in Birmingham Museum & Art Gallery was
explained by Best Friend 0.5(1) thus…
***
In 1742, a dark time descended upon Birmingham .
It was the time of the Great Bakers’ Strike.
They had been unhappy for some time. The bakers had
complaints a-many regarding their working and living situations. Their houses –
behind the bakery – were cramped and decrepit; stifling in summer, frozen in
winter, and falling apart at the rafters. The bakery itself was also in dire
need of repair; the ovens intermittent and stubborn, oftentimes needing
extensive coaxing to merely allow themselves to be lit.
But the most complained about aspect was none of these, dear
reader. It was the amount they were paid.
Contrary to
other professions of similar status, which rose with a gentle but reliable consistency
with the passing of time, their weekly wage had not risen in two decades or
more. Why was not certain. The complaint had been taken to the Town Council
more than once, but those in charge of such matters had reportedly bickered,
passing the responsibility back and forth repeatedly between them before
handing the matter back to the Council head, who then summarily refused to take
action as a decision could not be reached.
The matter came to a head on the late eve of February 23rd,
1742. A great knocking roused the Head Baker – a man who’s given name was
Bernard, but who was aptly named Beak by his brethren – from peaceful slumber
and drew him to the long since locked Bakery door.
Noting the tall,
shadowed figure of a man through the window pane, Beak contemplated walking
away back to the warmth and comfort of his bed, then decided against it. He
would probably keep knocking, he reasoned, and hinder any efforts to re-retreat
into slumber. So he opened the door.
It was
Nealson, one of the lower members of the Town Council. An odious man, puffed up
with false importance and swelled to unnaturalness by the wealth of his ancestors.
Peering owlishly inside, he demanded in a voice too loud for the time – with the
sour stench of stale beer rich on his breath – that he wanted a fresh cut loaf;
heavily grained and plaited if possible.
Well, Beak replied
with the time honoured tact and patience of a man used to dealing with
unreasonable members the public that he could not serve him at that time; the
last loaf of the last batch had been sold to the last customer seconds before
the store closed for the day. And the ovens were dead and cold and would be
until 3AM the following day (Beak noted with an internal pang as he said this
that that time was fast approaching).
Nealson’s
owlish face became more owlish as he stared at the Head Baker, outraged, before
reminding him of his station and duty. Beak was a Baker. He was a Councilman.
The lower orders were bound to serve those of the upper, and what he – an upper
– wanted right at that second from him – a lower – was a fresh cut loaf: so, chop
chop. He best get to it.
This was the precise the moment that something deep inside
of Beak snapped, and the Great Bakers’ Strike was born.
“Sod off, you c***t” was the reply Beak gave. An eloquent response
given the circumstances, it was agreed by everyone later.
And then he
slammed the door shut.
It was to remain closed for three days after that point.
Closed and barred from the inside and all knocks and calls and threats and
pleas ignored.
Then in the
dead of night, under the cover of darkness, it was opened again, for
approximately 60 seconds. Just enough time for the sign that was found the next
day to be attached.
The announcement was simple:
“NO MORE PAY? FINE. NO MORE BREAD”.
The outcry this caused was loud enough to reach villages and
towns several miles away. Loud enough for other Bakers to hear it, and immediately
follow suit. Pretty soon, there wasn’t a Bakery within the entirety of lower England that
was open for serving.
It was a problem, for certain. Councils met day after day as
always with only the one subject on the agenda: how to end the strike. Or, to
be more precise, how to end the strike without actually parting with any money.
After two
weeks’ worth of debate and deliberation, it was decided that the matter needed
to be dealt with with an iron fist. A constable of the Council court was duly
dispatched to post an official warning under the door – it had to be
underneath, for Beak had wisely boarded the letterbox along with the door –
warning them that as Bakers of the Crown, they were bound by said Crown to
produce bread. If no bread was produced, then they were acting contrary to
their sworn oath and could – and would – be arrested and tried for treason.
They had 24 hours to comply.
The Bakers considered this for twelve hours. Then for 12
hours after, they coaxed the ovens back to life and started baking. Then just
after, at 7AM, when the servant of the Head Councilman opened his door to retrieve
the bottle of milk that had been ordered to be delivered ready for breakfast,
he found a large basket covered over with a blanket. Calling to his master, he carried it inside. Upon
inspection, the basket was found to contain bread.
Flat bread to be precise. Several loaves worth.
On the top of
the loaves was a note. It stated – in between various expletives –that if they wanted
bread, they’d got it. One load of flat breads, made with unsweetened dough –
there the quip was made ‘because all of you Upper Men are surely sweet enough’ –
per day, to feed the Council, or the town, or whomever it pleased, and that was
it. No more, no less, until the row was resolved. Until their needs were
satisfied – on top of the original demand that their pay be raised to match
inflation, it was also requested that an extra half day a week be given off to
give the Bakers time to tend to their stricken houses, and also for their
equally stricken ovens be paid to either be fixed or replaced – the Bakery
doors would remain closed firm.
For a time, things continued in this vein, with neither side
showing any sign of relenting. The Councilmen tried various threats to try and
force the Bakers’ hand, but nothing worked. They couldn’t even manage to catch
whomever it was that Beak was sending to deliver the grudgingly given offering
of the day. No matter how closely the Bakery was watched or for how long,
somehow the mystery man got through (it was later discovered that there was a disused
mining tunnel, which not many knew of, leading right the way under the town).
Eventually, weeks and weeks later, the Councilmen bowed
under the pressure brought by the populace – sick as they were of not having
bread to go with their meat, and eggs, and fish, and cheese. And this wasn’t to
mention the Councilmen themselves, who had had the bread supplied by Beak for all of this time, but were unutterably sick of sourdough – and
called a special meeting to which Beak was cordially – and desperately – invited.
He arrived with great ceremony, flanked on either side by
the largest Bakers of his brethren. He was offered the best seat in the Council
House, and cigars and sweetmeats were wafted enticingly under his nose. He
accepted a light for the former and smilingly refused the other – his wife,
concerned regarding his health, had him on a low sugar diet – and after a few
slow, savouring breaths of the delightful burning stick, he gave another amiable
smile – the smile of a humble man that knows victory is close at hand – and asked
what he could do for them.
…Well, reader(s), it was all settled very quietly and quickly
after that. A special bursary was set aside for the updating of the outdated
equipment in the Bakery. The half day was granted – but only on alternate
Saturdays – and the long awaited pay rise was finally granted, on the condition
that the Bakers wait for the start of the new financial year.
And so, the people rejoiced as the handiwork of the Bakers was
restored slowly but surely to the bread and cake starved nation.
To celebrate this happy union,
the Watch Makers’ Guild was commissioned to make a clock to commemorate the
occasion. They initially refused – upset that due to the alternate half days
off the Bakers would no longer be delivering the glorious platter of mixed sweet
sandwiches that they had always so enjoyed and looked forward to every week –
but a quiet word from Head Baker to Head Maker resolved the issue forthwith and
the Guild – after a whispered promise that the platter would still be delivered
every Saturday lunchtime providing that they didn’t mention the matter to
anyone else – eagerly set to work.
This was the result:
And so it was, and so it is, and so – presumably – it will
remain.
...Isn't history grand?
The End.
***
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