Alasdair Gray: Ten Tales Tall and True

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”

“Water?”

“No thanks.”

“Quite right, better without… Good stuff Joe?”

“Aye.”

“How’s the old back, the old lumbago, Joe?”

“No bad, considering.”

“Aye, but age gets us all in the end — even me. I’m not as young as I was. We have to learn to take things easy, Joe.”

“Aye,” said Joe, and emptied the glass straight down his throat.

“God, that went fast!” said Stoddart, “Another one, Joe?”

“Goodnight,” said Joe, and walked out.