by Agnes Owens
‘Right!’ said McCafferty when he saw we were unmoved, ‘Ye’re a’ paid aff except the apprentice here.’
The apprentice was now outside the hut. We carried on with the cards.
‘That’s it then,’ said McCafferty, and banged the door behind him.
At this point we threw our hands in. Randy put the cards in his pocket. ‘Might as well take them hame.’
‘Oh well,’ said Big Joe stretching himself, ‘I could dae wi’ a week or two in front o’ the fire.’
‘Aye, but it’s no’ so good when ye’ve nae money,’ said Fitty.
‘We’re OK for the weekend anway. Who’s worrying aboot the future?’ I said with bravado.
‘There’s always the supplementary,’ Big Joe reminded us.
‘Aye, efter six weeks.’
I was beginning to get depressed. ‘How aboot runnin’ doon tae the licensed for a bottle of wine?’ I asked Fitty. ‘I’ll pay for it. I’ve just got enough.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Randy. ‘I’m no’ that keen on gaun hame. The wife’ll no’ be exactly overjoyed.’
There was a general agreement. Fitty returned with the wine and we poured out a measure into our mugs. We started to play cards again. This time it was for matches – not much of an incentive. Now a bottle of wine might be an average drink for one but between four it does not last long, and finally we were pouring it out in minute measures. The talk ran out and the game became boring. The bottle was drained and flung in the bucket. Then the door opened and McCafferty said, ‘I telt ye all. Ye’re sacked! There’s nae point in hingin’ on.’
‘Get stuffed!’ said Big Joe.
McCafferty turned away. ‘Well, ye’ll have tae go hame sometime.’
We sat in silence for about three minutes. ‘This place is as cheerful as a mortuary,’ said Big Joe. ‘I’m away hame.’
‘I’ll have a drag before I go,’ said Randy. He brought out his shag and handed us each a roll-up. My eyes were nipping. I closed them to ease the tiredness. When I opened them I was alone. I lit the roll-up and lifted the bottle from the bucket to drain the dregs, feeling cold and hopeless but reluctant to move. The aftermath of being paid off was always the same. I tried to recall how many times this had happened. Perhaps I never should have been a brickie. I had always fancied myself as a joiner. Once I spent a fortnight converting a set of drawers into a bookcase. It hadn’t been a success, but I always had the yearning. When the Youth Employment sent me to Smeddon’s Building Contractors, the foreman had said, ‘We don’t need apprentice joiners, but a big lad like you would do well as a brickie.’
‘No thanks,’ I had said.
‘You might change your mind. You’ve got a great build for a brickie. Come back tomorrow if you do.’
My mother had told me to get back up the road to Smeddon’s. ‘Ye’ll no’ get another chance,’ she said.
‘I don’t want tae be a brickie,’ I had shouted as I banged my fist on the wall, but the next day I returned to Smeddon’s and become an apprentice brickie. I carried the hod, laid common brick, facing brick and coping stones. I laid brick down manholes and laid brick up ten storeys, but I never had a pound in my pocket beyond a Monday unless I won it at cards. I was twenty-two. My arms were knotted like a man of forty-two, and sometimes my back ached as if I was fifty-two. And it all added up to being paid off once again. Oh well, there was no point in feeling sorry for myself. I might as well get a bit of shut-eye before I returned home to break the glad tidings. I eased myself up onto the bench and tried to forget it all.
I woke up freezing, and had to stamp up and down in the hut to get the circulation going. I opened the door. It was grey fog, so I shut it quick. There was nothing to hang around for, but it was funny to think I would never see these four wooden walls again, or that naked pin-up above the kettle, or that Carlsberg Special ashtray stolen from the boozer. I was getting that feeling of foreboding which strikes me now and again like a clammy hand on the shoulder. For Christ’s sake, I thought, I’m only twenty-two with no real problems, but sometimes I could see myself winding up on the river bank like the wineys, with all my possessions in a plastic bag. Let me kick the bucket before I reach that stage was the nearest I ever got to a prayer.
‘Are you there McCafferty?’ a voice roared in relief to my thoughts.
The door burst open and there was Rab Tunnock stoned out of his mind brandishing a brick hammer. He aimed it at the side of the hut.
‘Calm doon,’ I said.
‘Calm doon! That bastard McCafferty has paid me aff!’
‘We’re a’ paid aff, so forget it.’
‘Bastards!’ he said.
He lurched over to the wall and pulled the brick hammer out and swung it round his head. He was a terrible spectacle. Oaths spewed from him like the bile as his eyeballs swung in harmony with the hammer. If my sympathies were not for McCafferty, at that moment they were not for Rab.
‘I’m gaun tae smash in this hut,’ was his ultimate recognisable statement. I thought it was time to get going. ‘Please yersel,’ I said and hastily left.
I met McCafferty further along the site. ‘Rab Tunnock is smashing up the hut,’ I informed him. ‘Better look out. He’s pure mental.’
‘Don’t worry I’ll take care o’ that nut.’ He added, ‘Ye’d better get hame. There’s nae point in hingin’ aboot on a day like this. I’ll put yer time in tae five, but be sure tae be in sharp tomorrow and tell the rest o’ the layabouts tae be in sharp as well.’
‘Sure Harry, we’ll a’ be in sharp.’
‘That’ll be the day,’ he jeered.
I walked on shivering. I put my hands in my pockets and passed the apprentice laying brick in slow motion like a phantom in the fog.
‘Mind!’ McCafferty shouted, ‘Be in sharp!’
‘Get stuffed!’ I said, but not too loud, and thanked God I wasn’t paid off yet.
McCluskie’s Oot
‘Did ye hear that McCluskie’s oot!’ declared my mother when I was just in from work and not in a great mood.
‘Who?’
‘Ye know fine. Him from along the road. Him that did auld Muncie in.’
‘Oh him. Whit’s for dinner?’
‘Ye’ll see when it’s ready!’ she snapped and charged through to the kitchenette, adding, ‘The trouble wi’ you is that you’re interested in nothin’ but yersel.’
‘How should I be interested in McCluskie? He’s nothin’ but a heid-banger.’
‘He’s no’ the only one.’
‘Don’t gie me that fork,’ I instructed when she placed some chips and egg on the table. ‘It’s a’ rust.’
She studied the fork. ‘Nothin’ wrang wi’ it. It must be great tae have servants.’
‘It must be great tae have cutlery.’
‘Anyway, I think it’s terrible,’ she said.
‘Ye mean this fork?’
‘I mean it’s terrible that McCluskie’s oot.’
‘I thought ye were pally wi’ his auld wife.’
‘I feel sorry for her right enough havin’ a son like that, but I’ve nae time for him.’
‘I’m sure he’s worried.’
‘Well, worried or no’, I hear folks are gettin’ up a petition tae put the McCluskies oot their hoose.’
‘The trouble wi’ folk,’ I informed her, ‘is that they should mind their ain business, including yersel.’
‘Oh sure, everybody should mind their ain business, then we could a’ get murdered in oor beds.’
‘As far as I can remember the verdict was manslaughter.’
‘It was murder. The poor auld soul had his heid caved in.’
‘Well, if your heid banged aff the pavement it might cave in. Anyway, shut up. I want tae read the paper.’
I propped the paper up against the milk bottle, but I was really thinking fancy McCluskie getting out. I was sure he would have been put away for eight years. In fact I was hoping he would have been put away for eight years. Not that I ga
ve a damn about Muncie.
At one time McCluskie had been my one and only pal – a long time ago – when we were at school. In those days we had very fine ideas about our future. He was going to be a fireman and I was going to be a veterinary surgeon. I liked the sound of that. But things didn’t work out. He got a job in the distillery and I got started as an apprentice brickie. There had been nothing sensational about him then. He was a short, beefy, fair-haired lad with the scrubbed look that blond folk have. ‘A nice boy,’ was my mother’s comment. ‘I wish you looked half as tidy as him. That hair o’ yours is always hingin’ ower yer eyes.’ Our main pastime had been to go to the pictures as often as we could afford it and throw apple stumps at the heads in front of us. In the fine weather we would read dirty magazines whilst sunning ourselves on top of the bin lids. But we became fed up with the pictures and dirty magazines and took to drinking. This was mainly because of McCluskie’s easy access to the stuff. On Fridays he would come along for me carrying a lemonade bottle filled with undiluted spirits sneaked from the distillery. We would drink this in an old washhouse, and finish up rolling about the floor and being violently sick more often than not. We stayed out as late as possible so I could stagger to bed undetected while my mother was involved in the television, as she was even in these days. We enjoyed the excitement of this illicit drinking even if we never felt well. My mother would remark on how puky I looked but she was never suspicious. Maybe she thought it was a stage I was going through.
It all came to a head one Friday night when my mother was gossiping outside the close with a neighbour. Being drunker earlier than usual we had misjudged the time. The two of us were hitting off the fence as we rolled along the road. I must have been getting to the chronic stage because I couldn’t see very well.
‘Stop that stupid carry on,’ she said abstractedly in the middle of her discussion. McCluskie rolled on by heedlessly but I collapsed over the fence.
‘The boy looks right bad,’ the neighbour said.
‘In the name o’ God whit’s up wi’ ye?’ said my mother.
‘I canny see!’ I gasped out, then sank to the pavement.
‘Looks like he’s got meningitis,’ said the neighbour.
‘Get me a doctor, quick!’ I pleaded.
This statement struck a false note with my mother. She pulled my head up by the hair and smelled my breath.
‘He’s bloody well drunk. ’Phone the doctor, Aggie, an’ I’ll get him aff the pavement.’
I wasn’t well for a fortnight. During that time my mother kept up a tirade of abuse between plates of tinned tomato soup. I never knew what happened to McCluskie but for the time being I had had enough of booze. Gradually I came out of my misery and returned to work. I lost touch with him and my mother had altered her opinion.
‘I never want tae see that fella near this hoose again,’ was her command.
In those days she did have some jurisdiction over me, but it was a lonely business going to the pictures on your own or watching the telly with mother. I longed for a bit of excitement. Once or twice I went to the washhouse on a Friday hoping McCluskie would show up even without the lemonade bottle. Once in desperation I went straight from the site to the distillery in the chance I would bump into him. Sure enough I got there in time to see him sauntering along the road with another fella. Happiness surged through me at the sight of his moon face. Great, I thought, I was going to live again. I couldn’t reach him quick enough.
‘How’s it gaun John?’ I said.
The laughter faded from his face. ‘Tolerable son, tolerable,’ he said coolly. He walked on without as much as a slowdown. My face flushed as if the skin had been stripped off. I had to keep going. I walked straight on, as if I was wound up, right through the distillery gate.
‘Where do you think you’re goin’? asked the gateman.
‘Jist waitin’ for somebody,’ I mumbled.
‘Well wait back doon the road.’
I hung around for a minute outside the distillery for appearance’s sake and to keep me from catching up with McCluskie, then slowly I returned home.
I went through a bad period at that time. I stayed in at nights. Then I would pace up and down staring out of the window wondering if I could risk going out for a walk without folk taking a note of my loneliness. I could have become a recluse without any bother. Finally, one Friday I was adventurous enough to buy a half-bottle of cheap wine from the licensed grocer. I drank it in the seclusion of my bedroom. Courage hardened in my nerve cells enough to make me move outwards. I moved along to the first pub I came to, which was the Paxton Arms. Everybody was standing about in casual attitudes talking and laughing, but I was stiff with embarrassment. I knew the lonely sign was written all over me. Desperately I ordered a pint of beer and found it gassy and hard to swallow. A grizzled-looking guy came over and stood beside me. His eyes were wise and searching. The heat rose within me.
‘Does yer mither know ye’re oot?’ he asked. I stood rigid and scarlet.
‘Relax son. I’m no’ gaun tae report ye for bein’ under age if the barman canny see that himsel.’
‘I’m auld enough.’
‘Sure – auld enough tae drink shandy.’
‘Look mister,’ I said, ‘shut yer face or I’ll shut it for ye!’
He laughed. ‘Ach, ye widny hit an auld man. Here I’ll buy ye a decent drink.’
He ordered two whiskies and placed one before me, saying solemnly, ‘My name is Patrick Grant McDonald, but you can call me Paddy.’
From then my social life began.
I saw McCluskie once or twice in the Paxton after that, but I looked through him. He didn’t bother me. He looked through me. I told Paddy McDonald that McCluskie was in the habit of stealing money from his mother. After that I never saw him in the Paxton again. Maybe Paddy had influence. Anyway I became one of the regulars and forgot about McCluskie. Then last year he hit the headlines. Apparently he was running round with some crazy gang out of the district and he was selling Muncie, the nightwatchman of Paterson’s Sawmills, bottles of undiluted whisky. Muncie watered this down and sold the stuff at a nice profit. The gang always drank in his hut before they went out on the rampage. One night a fight broke out. Muncie must have interfered. He finished up with his skull smashed on a paving stone. McCluskie was charged. It could have happened to anyone but I was glad because I figured he had it coming. Now he was out it seemed a bit of an anti-climax. Then I thought, why bother about McCluskie? He was nothing to me now one way or another.
At least that was what I thought until I got Big Joe along the road to the site on Monday morning.
‘I hear there’s gaun tae be a new start,’ he informed me. That wasn’t worth a reply. There were always new starts on a Monday.
‘Did ye hear whit I said?’ he repeated.
‘Aye – so what?’
‘I’ll tell ye so what. It’s McCluskie that’s the new start. Him that did auld Muncie in.’
‘How did he manage that?’ I asked. ‘He’s never worked on the sites.’
‘Well, ye know McCafferty always has a soft spot for jailbirds since his son-in-law did time for ripping copper off an electric cable and putting the lights oot all over oor world. He was a pushover for McCluskie.’
‘Whit can he dae on the buildin’?’ My mind was trying to cope with this set of circumstances.
‘Anybody can dae general labourin’. It’s better than hard labourin’.’ He went into convulsions at his joke.
‘Ye’re no’ funny. I don’t want tae work beside that murderin’ bastard.’
‘I didny know ye were carryin’ a cross for Muncie. I heard he was very fond o’ wee lassies.’
‘In this place everybody gets a name for somethin’,’ I said angrily.
As I said before I didn’t give a damn about Muncie but it had taken me seven years to get over McCluskie. Now I might be back to where I started. I retreated into silence as we pushed on.
Sure enough, when we got into t
he hut there was McCluskie sitting in the corner. I looked him over furtively. He had changed a lot. He used to be beefy and red-faced. Now he was lean and pale. He gave me no sign of recognition. His eyes were on his feet. The squad were doing the usual Monday morning routine of grumbles about hangovers and giving highly coloured versions of their weekend, and kicking empty cans from Friday afternoon’s booze-up. I took no part in this. I was too busy watching McCluskie. He rose to his feet and said, ‘I’m new at this game fellas,’ then laughed – a pitiful attempt at a laugh anyway. ‘I don’t know whit I’m supposed tae dae, so if ye could gie me a clue like –’
For a minute nobody said anything. Then Fitty Peters, who is always on the ball, started to sing ‘Jailer Bring Me Water’.
As everybody is always ready for a laugh, especially on a Monday which is a very nervous day; we all joined in. McCluskie turned pink.
He sat down, scratched his head and joined in as well. Then everybody went silent. He was left singing ‘My throat is kind of dry’ on his own. In an offhand way I noticed that his gear was worse than mine. He had been charged in the summer and still had the open season gear. The thin stylish jacket, the coffee-coloured strides, the suede shoes, topped off with a yellow tee-shirt. All great for the beach but weird on a building site. I didn’t feel like laughing any more, but he wasn’t going to get any sympathy from me so I hurriedly gathered up my tools and left for the weary load ahead. Some folk had it coming to them and that was all there was to it.
‘Is that the fella that murdered auld Muncie?’ the apprentice asked me in a reverent tone.
‘It wis manslaughter – no’ murder.’
The apprentice sickened me. He had seen nothing, done nothing and was always a goody.
‘Whit’s the difference?’ he asked.
‘Well, the difference is, if I take this brick hammer an’ smash it ower yer heid, that would be murder. On the other haun’, if I accidently push ye aff the scaffolding when we get up, that’s manslaughter.’
‘Oh,’ he replied.