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.