Ten Tales Tall and True (2 page)

A heavily built man called McIvor approached the trench and stood for a while watching the gang with a dour, slightly menacing stare which was a tool of his trade. When his presence was noticed by the ganger, McIvor beckoned him by jerking his head a fraction to the side. Mick laid his pick carefully down, dried his sweating face with a handkerchief, muttered, “No slacking, men, while I confabulate with our commanding officer,” and climbed out of the trench. He did not confabulate. He listened to McIvor, stroked his chin then shouted, “Ian! Over here a minute!”

The youngest navvy, surprised, dropped his spade, leapt from the trench and hurried to them. McIvor said to him, “Do you want some overtime? Sunday afternoons, one to five.”

“Sure.”

“It's gardening work but not skilled weeding, cutting grass, that sort of thing. It's at the house of Mr Stoddart, the boss. He'll give the orders. The rate is the usual double time. You get the money in your weekly pay packet.”

“I thought Old Joe did that job.”

“He does, but the boss says Joe needs help now. What do you say? Yes or no?”

“Aye. Sure,” said the youngest navvy.

“Then I'll give you a word of advice. Mick here has pointed you out as a good worker so you'd
better be, because the boss has a sharp eye for slackers – comes down on them like a ton of bricks. He also has a long memory, and a long arm. If you don't do right by Mr Stoddart you won't just get yourself in the shit, you'll make trouble for Mick here who recommended you. Right, Mick?”

“Don't put the fear of death into the boy,” said the ganger, “Ian will do fine.”

In the bothy where the navvies had their lunch an ex-army man said loudly and cheerfully, “I see the fuckin Catholics are stickin to-fuckin-gether as per fuckin usual.”

“Could that be a hostile remark?” the ganger asked Ian, “Do you think the foul-mouthed warrior is talking about us?”

“Fuckin right I'm talking about yous! You could have gave the fuckin job to a fuckin family man like me with fuckin weans to feed but no, you give it to a fuckin co-religionist who's a fuckin wean himself.”

“I'm not a Catholic!” said the youngest navvy, astonished.

“Well how do you come to be so fuckin thick with Mick the Papal prick here?”

“I recommended the infant of the gang for three reasons,” said the ganger, “One, he is a bloody hard worker who gets on well with Old Joe. Two, some family men enjoy Sunday at home. Three, if one of us starts working around the boss's house
he'll get the name of being a boss's man, which is good for nobody's social life, but Ian is too young to be thought that, just as Joe is too old.”

“Blethers!” said the communist, “You are the boss's man here, like every ganger. You're no as bad as bastarding McIvor, but he comes to you for advice.”

“Jesus Mary and Joseph!” cried Mick to the youngest navvy, “For the love of God get out of this and apprentice yourself to a decent trade! Go up to the joiners' bothy and talk to Cameron – they're wanting apprentice joiners.”

“I'm not a Catholic, I've never been a Catholic,” said the youngest navvy, looking around the others in the bothy with a hurt, alarmed and pleading expression. The Highlander (who was also suspected of being Catholic because he came from Barra, and someone had said everyone from that island were Catholics) said, “You are absolved – go in peace,” which caused general amusement.

“Did you hear me Ian?” said the ganger sharply, “I told you to get out of this into a decent trade.”

“I might, when I've bought my Honda,” said the youngest navvy thoughtfully. He saw the sense in the ganger's advice. A time-served tradesman was better paid and had more choices of work than a labourer, but during the apprentice years the wage would be a lot less.

“Why did a clever fella like you never serve your time as a tradesman, Mick?” asked the communist.
“Because at sixteen I was a fool, like every one of us here, especially that silly infant. I never wanted a motorbike, I wanted a woman. So here I am, ten years later, at the peak of my profession. I've a wife and five children and a job paying me a bit more than the rest of you in return for taking a lot of lip from a foul-mouthed warrior and from a worshipper of Holy Joe Stalin.”

“You havenae reached the peak yet Mick,” said the communist, “In a year or three they'll give you McIvor's job.”

“No, I'll never be a foreman,” said the ganger sombrely, “The wages would be welcome, but not the loneliness. Our dirty tongued Orange friend will get that job – he enjoys being socially obnoxious.”

The foreman had given the youngest navvy a slip of paper on which was written
89 Balmoral Road, Pollokshields
, and the route of a bus that would take him past there, and the heavily underlined words
1 a.m. on the dot
. The boy's ignorance of the district got him to the boss's house seven minutes late and gasping for breath. He lived with his parents on a busy thoroughfare between tenements whose numbers ran into thousands. When the bus entered Balmoral Road he saw number 3 on a pillar by a gate and leapt off at the next stop, sure that 89 must be nearby. He was wrong. After walking fast for what seemed ten minutes he passed another bus stop opposite a
gate pillar numbered 43, and broke into a jog-trot. The sidewalk was a gravel path with stone kerb instead of a pavement, the road was as wide and straight as the one where he lived, but seemed wider because of the great gardens on each side. Some had lawns with flower-beds behind hedges, some shrubberies and trees behind high walls, both sorts had driveways leading up to houses which seemed as big as castles. All of well-cut stone, several imitated castles by having turrets, towers and oriel windows crowned with battlements. Signboards at two or three entrances indicated nursing homes, but names carved on gate pillars (Beech Grove, Trafalgar, Victoria Lodge) suggested most houses were private, and so did curtains and ornaments in the windows. Yet all had several rooms big enough to hold the complete two-room flat where he lived with his parents, or one of the three-room-and-kitchen flats being built on the site where he laboured. But the queerest thing about this district was the absence of people. After the back of the bus dwindled to an orange speck in the distance, then vanished, the only moving things he saw were a few birds in the sky and what must have been a cat crossing the road a quarter mile ahead. His brain was baffled by no sight or sign of buildings he thought always went with houses: shops, a post-office, school or church. Down the long length of the road he could not even see a parked car or telephone box. The place was a desert. How could people live here?
Where did they buy their food and meet each other? Seeing number 75 on another gate pillar he broke into an almost panic-stricken run.

Number 89 was not the biggest house he had seen but still impressive. On rising ground at a corner, it was called The Gables and had a lot of them. The front garden was terraced with bright beds of rose bushes which must have been recently tended by a professional gardener. A low, new brick wall in front hid none of this. The young navvy hurried up a drive of clean granite chips which scrunched so loudly underfoot that he wanted to walk on the trim grass verge, but feared his boots would dent it. Fearful of the wide white steps up to the large front door he went crunching round the side to find a more inviting entrance, and discovered Old Joe building a rockery in the angle of two gables.

“Hullo Joe. Am I late? Is he angry?”

“I'm your gaffer today so don't worry. Fetch ower yon barrow and follow me.”

Behind the house was a kitchen garden, a rhododendron shrubbery and a muddy entry from a back lane. Near the entry lay a pile of small boulders and a mound of earth with a spade in it. Joe said, “Bring me a load of the rocks then a load of the earth and keep going till I tell ye different. And while we're away from the house I don't mind telling you ye're on probation.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“He watches us. He's seen you already.”

“How? Why do ye think that?”

“You'll know why when he talks to ye later.”

As they worked on the rockery the young navvy looked cautiously about and gradually grew sure they were the only folk in the garden. The walls of the house where they worked were blank, apart from a wee high-up window that probably ventilated a lavatory. When he wheeled the barrow to the back entry he was in view of larger windows. He kept bringing boulders and earth to Joe who worked kneeling and sometimes said, “Put that there, son,” or “Give a shovelful here.” Nearly an hour passed then Joe sighed, stood slowly up, straightened his shoulders and said, “Five minutes.”

“I'll just get another load,” said the young navvy, lifting the shafts of the barrow. He was uneasily aware of the black little lavatory window above and behind him.

“We're entitled to five minute spells,” said Old Joe quietly, “We need them.”

“I don't need them. And I was late, you werenae.” He went off with the barrow, loaded it and found Joe working when he returned. An hour later a gaunt, smartly dressed lady looked round a corner, called, “Your tea is in the tool-shed,” then vanished behind the corner.

“Was that his wife?” asked the young navvy.

“His housekeeper. Are you working through the
tea-break too?”

The young navvy blushed.

The tool-shed, like the garage, was part of a big newly built outhouse, and windowless, and had a roller shutter door facing the back entry. It smelt of cement, timber and petrol; had shelves and racks of every modern gardening and construction tool, all shiningly new; also a workbench with two mugs of tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits on it; also a motorcycle leaning negligently against a wall, though there were blocks for standing it upright.

“A Honda!” whispered the young navvy, going straight to it and hunkering down so that his eyes were less than a foot from the surface of the thing he worshipped, “Whose is this?”

“The boss's son's.”

“But he hasnae been using it,” said the young navvy indignantly, noting flat tyres, dust on seat and metal, dust on a footpump and kit of keys and spanners strewn near the front wheel. What should be shining chromium was dull, with rust spots. “He's got better things to think of,” said Joe after swallowing a mouthful of tea, “He's a student at the Uni.”

“Why does he no sell it?”

“Sentimental reasons. His da gave it him as a present, and he doesnae need the money.”

The young navvy puffed out his cheeks and blew to convey astonishment, then went over to the
bench. Since they were not in sight or earshot of anyone he said, “What's the boss like?”

“Bossy.”

“Come on Joe! There's good and bad bosses. What sort is he?”

“Middling to average. You'll soon see.”

Ten minutes later they returned to the garden and worked for over an hour before Joe said, “Five minutes,” and straightened his back, and surveyed his work with a critical eye. The young navvy paused and looked too. He could see the rocks were well-balanced and not likely to sink under heavy rains, but the impending presence of the unseen Stoddart (maybe the biggest and bossiest boss he would ever meet) made him restless. After a minute he said, “I'll just get us another load,” and went off with the barrow.

Half an hour later the rockery was complete. As they stood looking at it the young navvy suddenly noticed there were three of them and for a moment felt he had met the third man before. He was a massive man with a watchful, impassive face, clean white open-necked shirt, finely creased flannel slacks and white canvas sports shoes. At last the stranger, still looking at the rockery, said, “Seven minutes late. Why?”

“I got off at the wrong stop – I didnae know the street was so long.”

“Makes sense. What's your name youngster?”

“Ian Maxwell.”

“Apart from the lateness (which will not be docked from your wages) you've done well today, Ian. You too Joe. A very decent rockery. The gardener can start planting tomorrow. But the day's work is not yet done as Joe knows, but perhaps as you do not know, Ian. Because now the barrow, spade, fork, trowel go back to the tool-shed and are cleaned – cleaned thoroughly. There's a drain in the floor and a wall-tap with a hose attached. Use them! I don't want to find any wee crumbs of dirt between the tyre and the hub of that barrow. A neglected tool is a wasted tool. What you'd better know from the start Ian (if you and me are going to get on together) is that I am not gentry. I'm from the same folk you are from, so I know what you are liable to do and not do. But do right by me and I'll do right by you. Understood?”

The young navvy stared, hypnotized by the dour impassive face now turned to him. Suddenly it changed. The eyes stayed watchful but the mouth widened into what the young navvy supposed was a smile, so he nodded. The big man patted him on the shoulder and walked away.

The navvies went to the tool-shed and cleaned the tools in silence. The youngest was depressed, though he did not know why. When they had returned the tools to their places (which were easy to see, because there were three of
everything so a gap in the ranks was as obvious as a missing tooth) the young navvy said, “Do we just leave now?”

“No. We wait for the inspection.”

They did not wait long. There was a rattling of at least two locks then an inner door opened and Stoddart came through carrying a tray with two glasses, a whisky bottle and a jug of water. His inspection was a quick sideways glance toward the tool-racks before he said, “How old are you, Ian?”

“Nearly seventeen.”

“Too young for whisky. I'm not going to teach you bad habits. But Joe and me haven't had our ne'erday yet. A bad thing, me forgetting old customs. A large one, Joe? Macallan's Glenlivet Malt?”

“Thanks, aye”