Ten Tales Tall and True Read Free

minute spells,” said Old Joe quietly, “We need them.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œWas that his wife?” asked the young navvy.
    â€œHis housekeeper. Are you working through thetea-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.
    â€œA 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?”
    â€œThe boss’s son’s.”
    â€œBut 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.”
    â€œWhy does he no sell it?”
    â€œSentimental 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 thebench. Since they were not in sight or earshot of anyone he said, “What’s the boss like?”
    â€œBossy.”
    â€œCome on Joe! There’s good and bad bosses. What sort is he?”
    â€œMiddling 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?”
    â€œI got off at the wrong stop – I didnae know the street was so long.”
    â€œMakes sense. What’s your name youngster?”
    â€œIan Maxwell.”
    â€œApart 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