Free Where Have You Been? by Wendy James Page B

long before he’d been given more responsible tasks: the foreman, a patient middle-aged man, had taught him to use the edgebander, then to nail up a cupboard, and finally, despite his mother’s protestations, he’d been allowed to cut up board on the beam saw. He was methodical and conscientious, and managed the work easily. But he knew that he didn’t want this – the endless menial tasks, cutting, gluing, screwing, the sawdust, the polyurethane fumes, the vulgar lunchtime conversations ... Ed had other plans for his life. Big plans. And they didn’t involve being a trained ape in his father’s factory.
    It had been Susan who’d persuaded Ed that it was an opportunity not to be lost. He’d been working for a sportswear company in the city, running their PR and marketing. It had been an interesting enough job, with opportunities to move up and away – the company had offices in the UK and Malaysia – but somehow he’d become bored. ‘There’s nothing substantial, nothing real for me to do,’ he said, ‘It’s too big – I’m just a cog in a wheel.’
    She’d made the suggestion, initially, as a kind of a joke; ‘Why not work for your dad, Ed? Derek seems to enjoy it.’ And initially Ed had taken it as a joke – just imagine him, Ed – swapping his Country Road Workwear for KingGees and steel-capped boots, sitting out with the blokes in the dusty factory. It was after a conversation with his father – who’d bemoaned the way the kitchen industry and the market itself had changed, that he’d begun to think into it seriously, to see the opportunities and possibilities on offer.
    â€˜You can’t even hire people these days, Ed, to do the measures. They want new cars, want twenty per cent commission, want to be called designers. Want bloody letters after their name. They’re all wankers – think they’re bloody architects. And then the bloody architects are even worse. Jesus. Ten years ago you’d just turn up with a tape measure and a scrap a paper. Now all the women want to gasbag about colours, and finishes; want to know which way the shadows of their fucken door handles will fall at particular times of the day, or whether they can get a consistently coloured timber that looks like plastic but isn’t, how much the new kitchen will increase their market value, whether the new kitchen will help little Henry get his place at Kings ... I don’t know if I can handle it much longer, son.’
    Ed had thought about it for a few weeks. He’d spoken to Susan, discussed his ideas with Derek, then rung his father. ‘You want to do what? You want to work here? In the factory? You?’
    Ed had explained that, no, he really had no desire to work in the factory, but he was convinced he had a guaranteed way to help his father get out of the sales side of the business, and to increase productivity and profitability at the same time. It would be a win-win situation.
    It had taken his father a few weeks to get used to the idea, and several years to stop laughing at Ed and his flakytheories, until eventually, inevitably, the company’s profits did begin to increase. Ed knows he can’t take full credit for this: the Sydney housing boom had certainly contributed to their success, along with the more recent renovation madness that had swept the suburbs. Ed’s innovations have been significant, of course: he has made sure they’ve kept pace with the boom, that they’ve made best use of new technology; they have invested in up-to-the-minute computer design programs, the latest spray equipment, edgers, saws, cutting-edge hinges and drawer runners. Their presentation and marketing procedures have been significantly enhanced and streamlined, their terminology has been updated: customers have metamorphosed into clients; salesmen and women have become designers (as much for the benefit of the