Parameter name: request
Translate Request has too much data
Parameter name: request
Michael Pawson: "If you treat people right, they work hard for you." Photograph: David Sillitoe for the GuardianIt is 5am on a grey, drizzling Monday in Spilsby, Lincolnshire: hooded figures carrying rucksacks and smoking rollups drift into the car park of the George and greet each other. One man is chatting on the phone, saying "tak, tak" in a determined way.
They are waiting for Michael Pawson, their gangmaster. Pawson, known to everyone as Ciggie, runs four teams, two British and two Polish, seven people in each – a tractor driver, four cutters and two packers.
At 5.15am he rolls into the car park in a Range Rover and jumps out: he is a trim, quietly spoken man dressed in wellies, jeans and a camouflage-style gilet. Two vans have already arrived and departed, taking the Polish workers to the field where they are working for the day, and now the British workers climb into their two vans, and we set off. Half an hour later, after flying through empty roads and bumping over farm tracks, we arrive in a huge field – 50 acres, Pawson estimates – full of broccoli.
There are two rigs – a tractor with a conveyor belt contraption to carry the vegetables to the packers waiting in the covered trailer behind – and one is instantly nabbed by the other team, leaving the packers in our van looking disgruntled. Not only is the remaining rig not their usual one (Pawson broke the door on that one driving through a gateway last week), meaning they have no music while they work, but this is the one cutting broccoli for Tesco.
Why is that bad? "Tesco requires us to put plastic liners in the trays," says Pawson. "It slows the packers down and when it's windy like this it's a real pain."
I jump up on the trailer with Beverley and her son, Jermaine, who are packing. They each shift a stack of plastic trays to the front of the trailer, prop another tray at an angle on the stack and lay a liner over the top. Beverley sits a set of electronic scales to one side. Then, even though the temperature is cool with a steady breeze blowing, Beverley strips off her coat and jumper. I soon learn why: as soon as the tractor starts up, the conveyor belts starts whizzing around, carrying large heads of broccoli up for Beverley to snatch up and slam into the tray in front of her. As soon as the tray is full, she plops it onto the scales, picks one head out so the tray weighs between 10.2kg and 11kg, then literally runs down the trailer to stack the tray at the back. She then hares back with an empty tray in her hand.
In the meantime, Jermaine has been loading broccoli into his tray. As his mother resumes her position at the front, he goes through the weighing and stacking process. Soon the back wall of the trailer is covered, and they start on a second layer.
Pawson walks in front of the tractor and its conveyor belt, in a line with three other cutters. They are all wearing waterproof trousers and carrying razor-sharp, long knives, and only stop to hack the tops off broccoli plants, trimming the leaves off and then popping the heads in the conveyor belt cups. Small heads are left for another round of cutting in two or three days' time, while those that are already too big for the supermarkets' tastes are slashed through the middle and left to be ploughed back into the soil.
Pawson is an unusual gangmaster in that he works alongside his employees. "I'd need five or six gangs to make it work financially if I didn't cut. But I don't mind doing this," he says.
He taps the conveyor belt with his knife when he wants the tractor to speed up. It's very physical work, and I'm surprised the cutters don't get bad backs from stooping down to the plants all the time. They certainly won't be getting fat any time soon.
He started operating as a gangmaster in his early twenties, after working as a farm labourer and a short sojourn in the movie industry doing special effects in Shepperton Studios. "I got fed up because the money wasn't excellent. Especially when you consider I was living in London," he says.
The term gangmaster is, for many people, associated with the Morecambe Bay tragedy in February 2004, when 21 Chinese workers who were part of a cockle-picking gang were caught by the tide and drowned. The ensuing trial of their gangmaster proved it was his criminal negligence that led to their deaths, and he was convicted on 21 counts of manslaughter and sentenced to 14 years in prison. However, he claimed that the ultimate responsibility lay with the clients, blaming frequent price-cutting by middlemen for the harsh regime. One of the surviving cockle pickers told the court he was paid ￡5 per 25kg of cockles.
The Morecambe Bay tragedy led to the introduction of the Gangmasters Licensing Act 2004 and formation of the Gangmasters Licensing Authority. This regulates all labour providers that place workers in agricultural, forestry, horticultural and food processing and packaging work and shellfish collection, ensuring that the people they recruit receive a written contract, the national minimum wage, decent accommodation, safe and legal transport and working conditions, and to be treated fairly and equally. Gangmasters who break the rules or operate without a licence can face up to 10 years in prison.
Has this made any difference to the way Pawson operates his teams? "Not really, we've always operated like this," he says. "If you treat people right, they work hard for you."
The owner of this particular farm pays a lump sum to Pawson, out of which he must take his share – 29%, weekly pay for the gang, and their tax and national insurance. Pawson's partner sorts out the tax and NI payments, and unlike many gangmasters, Pawson does not charge his employees for transport to the fields.
The farmer also subcontracts the running of the farm to different managers: Pawson's brother has for 35 years managed the green crop part of the farm, talking to the retailers about their requirements each day and sorting out which crops are ready for cutting. This is no small job – the farm comprises several thousand acres and gangs cut crops there from the end of February through to the end of November.
Far from chopping and changing workers, the gangs are very consistent in their makeup. Beverley has worked as a packer for this gang for nearly 34 years. She says: "I've done other things, but the money is too good here. It's a decent firm – everyone gets paid the same amount. You hear of some where they don't pay the foreigners as much."
Her son started working alongside her for the first time last month and looks likely to stay. Pawson says: "I thought we'd give him a try, and he's worked out very well."
The downside is that there is usually just one day's notice that the work is going to end, even though they have annual contracts. Employees are then left to find alternative work or sign on until they are needed again. The Polish workers tend to go back to Poland for the fallow period, but return once the work picks up. Pawson's two Polish teams are run by a married couple: the wife leads one team, her husband the other. "They originally worked in Boston, but were being ripped off. They heard about me so came and just turned up one day to ask if they could work for me: luckily I had some jobs going. They got married soon after and had a littl'un, and have worked for me ever since," says Pawson. They supply the other Poles in the teams – all of whom have worked for Pawson for several years now.
How is Pawson's Polish? "Non- existent. But their English is good. I have had a vodka or two with the team on evenings when we're not working the next day. You drink the vodka first, and then this much of coke or juice afterwards," he says, measuring out a depth of four fingers on his hand.
Suddenly Beverley exclaims and holds her hand, which is dripping blood. "It's these trays – they are the only ones that cut you if you catch yourself on the side," she says. She calls to Pawson and the rig and cutters stop to wait while she applies a plaster: Tesco will reject the broccoli if it has blood on it, she says.
We are near the end of the row, and Pawson decides to take a break while waiting for the other rig to catch up. The gang settle down in the back of the trailer with tea and their sandwiches, and chat companionably. One of the cutters teases Pawson: "Where's our music then, Mick?"
It's really not what most people would expect. Far from being exploited, underpaid and poorly treated, these workers seem happy, have a good relationship with their boss and are contented with their wages.
Undoubtedly there are still gangmasters who take advantage of their workers, but it's not happening here in this Lincolnshire field. Thankfully, we are a long way from Morecambe Bay.
Michael spent a year in his early 20s doing special effects for films, including the 1985 drama The Emerald Forest, directed by John Boorman: the dam that features in the film was built in Spilsby. Michael has an apartment in southern Goa and spends three weeks every winter in India, but he doesn't like curry. He loves fishing, and spends nearly every day sea fishing while on holiday in Goa. He keeps about 25 chickens in his back garden, but can't face growing vegetables.
Pay Pawson gets the equivalent of 29% of his employees' earnings. In a good week they get a piece rate of ￡400 gross or more. In a less good week they get an hourly rate of ￡6.80 (normal hours) or ￡9.86 (overtime). He earns whatever the cutters are earning, and rents out accommodation to seven of the Polish workers at ￡475 a month. But he runs four vans, paying ￡2,800 a year for insurance and ￡1,000 for fuel every month, plus ￡100 a month to a man who sorts out his DVLA paperwork.
Hours The teams start cutting when the sun rises and continue until the day's order is complete. That may take a couple of hours or all day, but usually they are finished by noon.
Work/life balance Pawson is often in bed by 7.30pm and only sees his partner for an hour in the evening.
Best thing "The money. If you work hard you get a decent living."
Worst thing "Rain. We're equipped for it, but you can't escape."
没有评论:
发表评论