The principle of acting in good faith is at the heart of decent

Host: The afternoon light slanted through the tall factory windows, pouring in stripes of gold and dust across the floor. The rhythmic clatter of machines had quieted — the shift was over. What remained was the sound of footsteps, of tired bodies and tired hopes making their way toward the door.

Jack stood near the workbench, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, the faint smell of iron and oil clinging to him. His hands were calloused — not from machinery, but from leadership. Across from him, Jeeny sat on a stool, her brown eyes steady and bright, a clipboard resting on her knees. The hum of a single old fan turned the air in slow, uncertain circles.

She looked up from the paper in her hands, then spoke quietly — a voice that carried the warmth of reason and the chill of truth.

Jeeny: “Richard Eyre once said, ‘The principle of acting in good faith is at the heart of decent work.’”

Host: Jack exhaled, leaning against the bench. A few tools clinked together under his hand. He looked at her — weary, but listening.

Jack: “Good faith. Sounds quaint. Like something you’d find in an old ethics manual nobody reads anymore.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why decent work feels so rare.”

Jack: half-smiling “You think that’s all it takes? Good faith? You’ve never tried keeping a business alive on idealism.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m saying you can’t keep one alive without it.”

Host: The faint hum of machinery from another floor vibrated through the concrete — a pulse, a memory of labor.

Jack: “Look, I pay fair wages, I follow the law. Isn’t that enough?”

Jeeny: “No. That’s compliance. Good faith is conscience.”

Jack: pauses “Conscience doesn’t pay salaries.”

Jeeny: “Neither does mistrust. You think your people work for you because of the contract? They work because they believe you’re not lying to them — not cutting corners, not cutting them out.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes softened, the kind of softness that happens when conviction meets a mirror.

Jack: “You know, I used to think work was just a transaction. You show up, you do the job, you get paid. Simple. But it’s not, is it?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a relationship — one that lives or dies by good faith.”

Jack: “So what, I’m supposed to treat everyone like family?”

Jeeny: “No. Treat them like people.”

Host: The fan creaked as it turned, blowing warm air through the quiet room. Jeeny stood, walking toward the window. The factory yard stretched out below — a sea of metal and sweat, framed by the fading sun.

Jeeny: “You see that?”

Jack: “The yard?”

Jeeny: “The people. They give you eight hours a day, sometimes more. They give you muscle, thought, fatigue, and faith that the work means something. Decent work isn’t just about fair pay — it’s about shared purpose.”

Jack: “Shared purpose.”

Jeeny: “Yes. When you act in good faith, you remind them that their effort isn’t being traded for profit alone, but for dignity.”

Jack: quietly “And if I fail?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you’ll fail honestly. And people forgive honest failure. They don’t forgive deception.”

Host: A long silence fell between them. The light had begun to fade — the gold turning to bronze, the bronze to blue. The shadows stretched long across the floor, like truths finally catching up.

Jack: “You really believe that’s enough? Faith between worker and employer? In this world?”

Jeeny: “Not enough to fix the world. But enough to fix a corner of it. And maybe that’s how the world gets better — one corner at a time.”

Jack: half-smiling again “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s just honest. You can’t fake good faith, Jack. You live it — or you lose it.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands — the grease under his nails, the faint tremor of exhaustion. He wasn’t just thinking about his employees now. He was thinking about himself — about the promises he’d broken to keep the lights on.

Jack: “You ever think decency’s outdated? That maybe the world rewards the ones who cheat first, apologize later?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But the reward is hollow. Look around — the powerful are rich in everything but peace.”

Jack: “And good faith gives you peace?”

Jeeny: “It gives you sleep.”

Host: The line landed between them — sharp and gentle all at once. Jack nodded slowly, as if something unseen had just clicked into place.

Jeeny: “The truth is, most work becomes indecent when trust leaves the room. Whether it’s an actor on a stage or a worker in a factory, everyone wants to know their effort isn’t being exploited.”

Jack: “Eyre was a theatre director, wasn’t he?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But the principle’s universal. Good faith builds decent art, decent work, decent nations. It’s the same heartbeat in every system that hasn’t gone rotten.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside, faintly tapping against the windows. Jeeny turned, watching the streaks slide down the glass.

Jeeny: “Imagine if every company started meetings not with targets, but with a question: Are we acting in good faith?”

Jack: “Half the boardrooms in the world would go silent.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “And maybe that silence would be the most honest thing they’ve said in years.”

Host: The two stood by the window now, the factory lights below blinking on one by one — small beacons in the dusk.

Jack: “You know, when I started this place, I just wanted to build something that lasted. But maybe longevity isn’t the same as integrity.”

Jeeny: “Longevity without integrity is just endurance. Integrity gives it soul.”

Jack: “And good faith gives it meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, the sound steady and soothing. Jeeny gathered her papers. Jack stayed at the window, staring at the yard, at the silhouettes of people walking home beneath umbrellas.

Jack: “You know what scares me most, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “That good faith can’t be taught. It can only be lost.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t lose it.”

Host: Her voice was soft but immovable, like the voice of conscience itself.

The camera drifted back — the two figures silhouetted against the factory window, framed by the light of work and weather.

Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, a quiet promise formed — not written, not signed, but understood.

Because Richard Eyre was right:

The foundation of every worthy endeavor —
every creation, every collaboration, every honest day’s work —
isn’t ambition or brilliance or power.

It’s good faith.

The invisible contract that says:
I will not exploit your effort.
I will not betray your trust.
I will build something worthy of the hands that make it real.