He asked me what I was doing bringing my bags to work with me. I told him I hadn’t been able to get into my digs because I had no money.
‘And that’s why I was wondering,’ I said, ‘if I could have a sub till the end of the week, just a few quid, enough to pay my deposit.’
He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. And then he said, ‘Where d’ y’ think y’ are, son, Social fuckin’ Services?’ And then he just turned round and said, ‘Come on, shift y’ arse an’ follow me.’
He went striding off and I almost had to run to keep up with him.
He kept glaring at me and then he said, ‘There’s no favours here, y’ know. I’m givin’ y’ a start and that’s all. The rest’s up to you. Y’ pull your weight or you’ll be fucked off, uncle or no uncle! D’ you understand?’
I nodded. And then I saw where he was taking me, leading me towards the place where the big lorries with the cement-mixer backs were pouring out the thick wet liquid. And I knew then, I knew he was putting me on the Readymix. Just from listening to my Uncle Jason, I knew it was a killer, shovelling the Readymix, because it looks like nothing but it’s so heavy and you can’t stop or take a breather because it goes off so fast and you have to keep working it while it’s still wet. That’s why he’d said, my Uncle Jason, said, ‘So they’ll probably start you on something a bit easier, making the tea and doing some wheelbarrow work till you’ve had the chance to build up a bit of muscle on those spindles of yours. Arms like sparrow legs, you wouldn’t last half an hour on the Readymix.’
That’s why I said it to him, Morrissey, the Ganger man; I didn’t moan or whinge but I just said, ‘Is there nothing else I could do at first? Because my Uncle said I haven’t got the muscle for the Readymix yet and it might be better if I build my muscles up a bit first.’
He looked taken aback. But then he recovered and said, ‘Hey! What the fuck d’ y’ think this is, Fitness World? It’s a building site, not a fuckin’ gym. Your uncle!’ he said. ‘Your uncle! Forget your fuckin’ uncle. I’m the Ganger on this site. Your uncle might be up the arse of the QS but I’m the Ganger here, I’m the one who decides what’s fuckin’ what on this site! So take your pick,’ he said, throwing the shovel at me. I went to catch it but I missed and it just clattered onto the ground.
‘Either get stuck in with them and start shovelling,’ he said, ‘or y’ can sling your fuckin’ hook.’
I looked down the bank, where the Readymix was coiling out of a pipe like giant grey toothpaste while a gang of stripped-shirt, bare-backed builders shovelled together in some kind of unison, like silent rhythm boys, like a chain gang, the sweat pouring off them. It was still only just gone eight o’clock in the morning, but even then the sun was already bright and burning and you could tell it was going to be one of those days when the tar on the roads bubbles up like cheese beneath the grill.
I saw the brown-backed labourers looking back at me, looking peeved and pissed off as they started muttering to each other. Then one of them, the youngest one who didn’t look much older than me, shouted up to the Ganger, saying, ‘Y’ not thinkin’ of putting him with us, are y’? We need another man, not a fuckin’ streak of piss like that!’
I just looked back at him. And I could quite happily have slung my hook right there and then. I was frightened, Morrissey; frightened that I’d make a fool of myself, that I’d be too shagged out and feeble and laughed at, or worse. But I knew; if it was a new start then it had to be a brand spanking new start. They didn’t know me, none of them knew me; I wasn’t Raymond Marks, I wasn’t anybody, just a new face, that’s all. They didn’t know who I was or what I was. So I didn’t have to be Raymond Marks. It was a new start! And that’s why I suddenly bent down and snatched up the shovel. And pushing past the Ganger man, I walked down the bank, staring all the while at the labourer who’d called me a streak of piss. And when I got near enough, I stopped and I said, ‘What the fuck’s your problem?’
He slowly straightened up. But I didn’t flinch, Morrissey. And I could see him sizing me up, wondering whether he should go for me. But then one of the older ones told him, ‘Hey, come on, keep fuckin’ shovellin’. In heat like this it’s setting faster than plaster of fuckin’ Paris. Now come on.’
The young labourer stared at me for a second longer, before lifting his shovel and filling it again as he told me, ‘My problem, mate, is that my bonus is on the line here. So if we’re lumbered with someone who can’t hack it, I’m not gonna be very fuckin’ happy, am I?’
I’d never really prayed before, Morrissey, not really. But I did then! As I moved across, lifted my shovel and swung it into the sludgy mound of thick wet mix, I just prayed with all my heart that I’d have the strength to carry it off, to survive.
It looked easy, looked like there was no weight at all, the way they swung their shovels like they were shovelling air. But I knew, as I plunged my shovel into the mix and lifted, as I felt the strain at the top of my arms I knew, as I bent and straightened and shovelled the mix deep down in the trench before turning and bending and shovelling and lifting and throwing it off in the trench again, I knew; that if he’d never been right about anything else in all of his appalling life, my Uncle Bastard Jason had been right about shovelling Readymix. It wasn’t that each shovelful was particularly heavy. It was the accumulation, like all those single shovelfuls taking their toll and stretching the muscles, slowly sapping the strength from within, while outside, up above, the sun blistered down, baking the napes of the necks and the backs of the shovellers shovelling the mix and filling the trenches.
Nobody spoke to me. Nobody said a word. And I was glad, because it was taking every ounce of energy I had just to make even a respectable attempt at keeping up with them. I knew I wasn’t doing very well, Morrissey, not compared with them, the rest of the gang, with their big thick muscles and their tender tattoos. The worst thing was that I was sweating so much that it kept running into my eyes and stinging them so that I had to keep lifting up the front of my vest and wiping my eyes so that I could still see properly. I know I wasn’t very good. But at least I was trying, trying my best. And at least no-one was slagging me off or taking the piss. And I concluded that they must have just decided to ignore me. Which is why I didn’t really hear him at first, the older one. But then he knocked me on the arm and when I looked up he was holding out a piece of rag. Then he motioned to me to tie it around my head. I was just about to tell him it was bad enough wearing a Springsteen tee shirt without having a Willie Nelson headband as well.
But he nodded and said, ‘Keep the sweat out y’ eyes.’
And so I didn’t say anything, Morrissey. I just nodded back and tried to tell him thanks; but he was already back shovelling, as I paused, tying on the head-rag, grateful for the kindness; and grateful for the breather, for just those tiny seconds where my back could stay straight for a moment and my arms feel free of the shovel. I took the opportunity to pull off my soaking vest as well. And as I did, I noticed that my fingers were shaking uncontrollably. I could barely hold them still enough to tie the headband around my head. And then, when I finally did get it tied and picked up the shovel again, I was almost sorry I’d stopped, because after just that one tiny break everything felt twice as heavy and harder and ten times more backbreaking than it had done before. Maybe that’s why I winced as I bent and began to shovel again. That’s when I caught his eye and saw that he was watching me, the younger lad. I half expected him to laugh, or kick off again about his bonus and how I was holding them back. But he said nothing; and I wasn’t entirely sure, but he seemed to nod at me. I just kept on trying to keep up.
Until I heard someone saying, ‘Swing.’
I looked up and it was the young labourer. He was talking to me. ‘Don’t stab at it,’ he said. ‘Let the shovel do the work. Swing with it.’
He showed me what he meant, his shovel swinging easily and slicing into the mix like a knife into butter, his body following through and the filled shovel lifting up, be
fore he turned and sent the mix shooting down into the trench, the whole graceful thing like it was one seamless movement. I tried it, letting the shovel swing like he said and bending into it as I did. Then I heard one of the others saying, ‘That’s more like it. Don’t try and fight the fuckin’ stuff because it’ll kill y’. Work with it.’
‘That’s it,’ the younger one said, ‘keep the rhythm. It’s easier if y’ keep in rhythm.’
I nodded. And tried to do what he said, tried to do it like they all did. I knew I still couldn’t keep up with them, not really. But doing it like they said, going with the rhythm of it, feeling the rhythm of the way it was working, I knew I could keep going. Even though I’d end up more knackered than I’d ever been knackered in my whole life, I knew I could survive it. And I think they all knew as well, because they seemed to relax a bit. The work didn’t slacken but as they shovelled they started talking and laughing amongst themselves. And I was glad; because even though they weren’t talking to me, at least they were able to forget about me instead of being suspicious and pissed off, worried that I’d hold them back and make them lose out on their bonus. I didn’t even expect them to talk to me. That’s why it didn’t register at first. Until I realised the one with the snake tattoo on each arm was asking me where I was from. I didn’t think they would have heard of Failsworth, so I told them Manchester. And straight away then, they asked me what team I supported. I was about to tell them that I didn’t support any team and I never ever watched football. But I didn’t, and instead I said, ‘Manchester United.’
They laughed and jeered, and one of them said, ‘Man United? Shite United more like!’ They all laughed again. And I knew I was supposed to go back at them and counter with something suitably disparaging about their team. But I didn’t even know who their team were. So I said, ‘Who do you all support?’
They said, Grimsby Town. And even I knew that in the hierarchy of English football, a lowly Grimsby Town supporter didn’t even have the right to mention Manchester United, let alone insult them! But still I couldn’t think of a sufficiently authentic-sounding insult to throw back at them. And I could see it was expected, that if I was to have any credibility as a football supporter I’d have to come up with something. And maybe that’s why it suddenly popped into my head, the little piece of verse I’d written when I’d been on that coach with all them Grimsby tradespeople.
So that’s what I said to them, the Grimsby Town-supporting Readymix shifters. Still shovelling, I told them, ‘Grimsby! Oh Grimsby/One look’s all it takes/To prove even God/Can make mistakes!’
They suddenly all looked somewhat stunned. They even stopped shovelling! And I realised I’d gone too far. But then, as I was trying to figure a way out of it with them all stood there staring at me, almost as one they suddenly started laughing. And the older one even said, ‘Tell us that again.’
So I did. And as we all went back to work, I heard him repeating it to himself, ‘ “Grimsby! Oh Grimsby/One look’s all it takes …” ’ Then he was chuckling to himself as he said, ‘Fuckin’ right that an’ all!’
The younger lad said, ‘Where did you hear that then?’
I just shrugged and said, ‘I forget. I think I just read it somewhere.’
He nodded and carried on with the shovelling as everything fell quiet again.
And, Morrissey, I wanted to tell them that I’d written it! That bit of verse that had tickled them. It was me who’d made that up and I hadn’t read it in a book. I wanted to tell them – it was the first time that one of my own lyrics had ever been aired in public!
Then I realised that I couldn’t tell them. Because they’d probably think I was lying or mark me down as being weird. And anyway I wasn’t a lyric writer! Not any more. I was just the new lad on the end of a shovel. I’d given up lyric writing. I was doing all right, managing to hold my own, as part of a gang on a building site. I’d had enough of being weird. I just kept on shovelling and kept my mouth shut about matters such as lyric writing.
I worked like they’d told me, going with the rhythm, keeping time, shovelling, lifting, bending and lifting and shovelling, shovelling the thick wet mix … shovelling faster than ever today, they said, because of the weather, the hot hot weather, the blazing sun, the stripped-off shirts and the baking heat that blasts and burns and turns the Readymix block-solid and useless in no time at all … no time to stand and fuck about when the weather’s like this, when the sun’s full out and blazing down, baking the napes of the necks and the backs of the shovellers shovelling the mix and filling the trenches till your body’s not you, it’s just a machine; and your mind disappears, goes off somewhere else, lost in a kind of empty trance.
And that’s why, at first, I thought it was just something inside my head, because most of the time, Morrissey, sometimes without me even being aware of it, there’ll be one of your songs buzzing away inside my head. But then I heard the moans and groans and shouts of protest and realised that, anyway, it wasn’t even your voice I was hearing. It was his, Morrissey, the young labourer lad’s. As he was working he’d broken into song and now all his mates were shouting at him, telling him to give up and give over and if he wanted to sing he should sing something with a bit of life to it instead of ‘that fuckin’ morbid dirge’.
He ignored them though, and I saw the devilment in his eyes as he wound them up and sang even louder, sang, ‘I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour/But heaven knows I’m miserable now …’
Seeing me watching, he smiled and winked as the older fellers kept up their barrage of protest. Then he suddenly stopped singing and called out to the rest of them, saying, ‘Shut y’ whinging! Y’ all fuckin’ ancient, youse, y’ know nowt. That’s a quality song, that is!’ He turned and looked at me again. ‘Isn’t it?’ he said.
But I just shrugged.
And he said, ‘Don’t y’ rate him then? Morrissey?’
I just shrugged again. And I said, ‘He’s all right. I suppose.’
Morrissey, I’m sorry! I wanted to tell him!
But he just broke out singing again, ‘I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour …’
And then all his mates ganged up against him and all started singing at the top of their discordant voices, singing ‘Radio GooGoo’, that stupid Queen song, singing it louder and louder and louder until they’d drowned out the young labourer so that he just gave up and went back to shovelling in silence.
And I wanted to tell him, Morrissey, that he wasn’t alone, that there was another fan on that building site.
Only I wasn’t, Morrissey, not any longer. I’d renounced you!
It was all right for him, the young labourer, he could be a fan and still get by, because he’d already proved himself in the gnarled-knuckle world of the building site. But if I’d gone there with my quiff and my tee shirt and all of my Morrisseyness intact, I never would have had a chance. And as it was, I was managing. I was getting by. That’s why I just kept on shovelling, saying nowt; and doing my best to ignore all my natural instincts, Morrissey; to ignore you!
I just wanted to belong, that’s all. And I know now, I know it’s pathetic. But when I was with them, working, I felt as if I was achieving something and even making some kind of progress. And I know, Morrissey, I know it’s ridiculous because the only thing I was doing was helping fill up a trench with a load of concrete, while getting baked beneath the sun and so shagged out that by the time it got to dinnertime I could barely begin to lift my legs and drag myself across to the corrugated-iron hut that served as a sort of canteen. It was only a couple of hundred yards away but it could have been a hundred miles, the way my legs felt as if all the life had leaked out of them. And I don’t think I would have made it at all if I hadn’t overheard them, the old feller and the labourer with the snake tattoos.
They must have thought I’d already gone across to the canteen, but I was just sat there slumped on the ground at the back of the Readymix truck. They were around the other side, washing their hands under t
he stop tap, and I heard him, the snake-tattoo man, as he said to the older man, ‘Lookin’ at him this morning, I thought he’d be a waste of fuckin’ space. But he’s not doin’ so bad.’
‘Aye,’ the old feller agreed, ‘I wouldn’t have put tuppence on him holding a shovel, let alone using one.’
I heard them both laughing. And then the snake-tattoo man said, ‘Aye, if he sets his mind to it, he’s got the makings of a good little grafter!’
Morrissey, I know it was stupid! I’m even embarrassed just telling you. But when I overheard them saying that, I felt this small rush of pride! I don’t know what was wrong with me, but as I struggled to my feet and started following after them, dragging myself towards the canteen I felt … I felt a small sense of belonging; of being part of something!
And I might have carried on feeling like that, Morrissey, feeling as if I was getting somewhere; feeling that, if nothing else, I was at least holding down a job. But even when I was making my way over to the corrugated-iron hut, I was already starting to feel a bit light-headed and woozy. I was starting to shake, and tremble, like I’d got the ‘knock’, like all my energy had been burned up and the only way to bring it back was to get some food inside of me like they do in the Tour de France when they’ve pedalled over the Pyrenees and burned up all their energy so they have to stuff Mars bars into their mouths to stop them shaking. And that’s what I thought it was with me, just a bit of lightheadedness because I was so starving hungry that all my insides were trembling and screaming out for the want of some food. By the time I got inside the hut and joined the queue at the counter, I knew that I’d never even begin to get through the afternoon and a load more shovelling unless I could get some strength back. That’s why I decided I was going to have the biggest dinner I’d ever had in my life, with loads of carbohydrates like the athletes have, with double helpings and extra chips, loads of bread and the thickest, stickiest pudding they’d got.
The Wrong Boy Page 46