"Sleanagh, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?"

"I’m having my dinner."

"It’s nearly two o’clock."

"I didn’t have any at half twelve because I needed to get number 379 ready before the two o’clock to Ayr. It was late back from Kilmarnock, and she didn’t get in till nearly eleven, so I worked through my dinner-time."

"I don’t give a fuck. Get back to your work."

"Come on Mr. Breckenridge, I haven’t had any dinner. I worked right through. I’ll finish this in a minute, and get right back out there."

"You get your arse out into that shed, and don’t give me any fucking cheek. If you’re not out there right now, you can collect your books and get the fuck out of my shed."

"Come on, that’s not fair. I worked through my dinner-time. can you not let me have a couple of minutes to eat it now. I’ll only be another minute."

Breckenridge grabbed Cormac by the arm.

"Out, ya wee Papish bastard. Get back into that fucking shed and get on with your work. That’s what you’re paid for."

Cormac’s bread and cheese was knocked to the ground. He bent down to pick it up. Breckenridge, still holding Cormac’s arm, pulled him away from the bread.

"Let go of my arm."

Breckenridge pulled him off balance and he fell. On his knees, Cormac picked the bread off the ground. Breckenridge took a hold of his arm again.

"Let go of my arm."

Breckenridge knocked the bread from his hands. "Get back into that shed. Now!"

Cormac shook loose of Breckenridge’s grip. "Leave me alone Mr. Breckenridge. I’ll be there in a minute."

"You’ll be there right now! Move your fucking arse." He made another grab at Cormac’s arm.

"I said, leave me alone."

He caught Cormac by the collar of his jacket. "You’ll do what you’re fucking told. Now get into that shed."

"Fuck off and don’t touch me." Cormac’s restraint evaporated.

"Who the fuck are you telling to fuck off? You fuck off. You’re sacked. Go and collect your fucking books at the time-keeper’s."

Breckenridge stalked off towards the shed. Cormac, shocked, stood looking at his retreating back.

He kicked the bread lying on the ground and walked over to the time-keeper’s office and knocked on the window.

The window was shoved up. The time-keeper propped a ruler under the window to keep it open.

"What do you want son?"

"Make my time up. That bastard Breckenridge just gave me my books."

"Name?"

"Sleanagh."

"You got your time-card there?"

He took the buff-coloured card from the rack on the wall beside the window, and handed it over.

The time-keeper looked at the clock on the wall.

"That’s quarter past two." He wrote the time on Cormac’s card and turned to his desk at the rear of the office. Ten minutes later he returned and gave Cormac the money he was due. He lifted the window half an inch, removed the ruler, and let the window drop with a bang.

Cormac turned and went home.

*****

"What are you doing home at this time?"

"I had a bloody row with Breckenridge and got the sack."

Cormac explained the afternoon’s happenings.

"We’ll go and talk to my daddy. He’ll sort it out."

"No lassie. It’ll do no good. Breckenridge won’t change his mind, and it’ll only embarrass your father. It’ll not be fair to ask him. No, just leave it. I’ll find something else."

They sat drinking tea. The two children, Mack, who was a year and a half, and John, four months, were having their afternoon nap in the bedroom. Cormac paced the floor.

"For goodness sake, sit down. You’re driving me daft with all that walking up and down."

He sat down at the table. "I’ll go over to the shipyard tomorrow and see if there’s any work going there."

Bang, bang, bang. Loud knocks sounded at the door.

"Who the devil can that be?" Cormac opened the door. Four men stood there. It was half past four.

"We’ve come to put you out."

"Put us out? What for?"

"It’s a railway house pal. You don’t work for us any more, so we’ve come to move you out."

"You can’t put us out just like that. There are two bairns sleeping in the back room. Where the hell are we supposed to go?"

"Nothing to do with us pal. We got told to move you out, and that’s what we’re doing." The big man doing the talking, obviously enjoying this, pushed past Cormac into the house.

"Cormac. What’s going on?" Beth came to the door of the living-room.

"They’ve come to put us out of the house. They say it’s a railway house and we’ve got to get out."

Beth looked at the squad of men who had moved into the scullery. Sizing the situation up, she stood in front of them with arms folded.

"Right then. Which one of you is going to wake the children and carry them out into the street and put them down on the pavement?"

The big man stopped in front of her. "Get out of my road ya Papish bitch. If I had my way, you’d all be out on the fucking street."

Beth did not move. "You’ll have to get past me." She unfolded her arms.

He made a move to take hold of her.

"Don’t touch her." Cormac moved between them, heart hammering.

The man grabbed him by the lapels and lifted him so that his heels were off the floor.

"All right Sam. That’s enough. Let him go." One of the others pushed to the front of the group. He caught the big man’s arm.

"Leave him go, Sam."

"Fuck off Davey. If they won’t go quietly. We’ve to put them out anyway. That’s what Breckenridge said."

"Just you go and wait outside. The lot of you," Davey said turning to the others.

Sam let Cormac go. "You fuckin’ Cathliks are getting what youse deserve. I’d set the whole fuckin’ gang of youse on a fuckin’ boat tonight and ship youse all back to fuckin’ Ireland, where you fuckin’ belong." He turned and went out with the others into the street. By this time the neighbours had gathered outside the door.

"Give us a couple of shillings, and I’ll take them down the pub for a couple of hours. That’ll give you time to get yourselves sorted out. If you’re not out when we get back, We will turf you out."

Davey held out his hand. Cormac went into the kitchen and took two half-crowns from the jam-pot with the rent-money.

"Here. There’s five shillings. Come back when the pub shuts. We’ll be gone by then."

"That’ll not keep them going till ten o’clock."

"That’s all we’ve got. They can pay for their own beer when that’s gone. They’re not drinking all night on my money."

The man jingled the money in his hand. "Give us another two shillings or we’ll put you out now." Cormac looked at him and took two shillings from his pocket. "Here. Don’t come back before closing time."

The squad went off to the Railway Bar, round the corner in Edinburgh Street.

"What’s going on Cormac?" Tommy Fisher wanted to know. He was their neighbour, next door.

"Got my books this afternoon, and they’re throwing us out of the house."

"Aye, we’ve seen that happen a few times. I’ve had to hold my tongue many’s a time in the shed, for I knew this could happen. You want a hand?"

"We’ll have to go to Beth’s mother’s. Can your Josey run over to Seabank and tell them what’s happened."

"Josey!" he yelled over his shoulder.

Josey appeared from the house, twelve years old, red hair, a big gap between his front teeth and crossed-eyes.

"What Da?"

"Run over to Seabank to Mrs. Connor’s at ...where’s she live?"

"Quay Street, number thirty two."

"Thirty-two, Quay Street. D’you know where Quay Street is?"

"Aye, it’s that wee road off Arthur Street that runs down to the harbour."

"That’s right. Now away and tell Mrs. Connor that Mr. Sleanagh’s lost his job and is being put out the house. And can he and Mrs. Sleanagh come and stay with them."

"Mr. Sleanagh’s lost his job and can they come and stay with youse ‘cause they’re being put out the house."

"That’s right. Away ye go. And mind you come right back here and tell us what she says ."

"Aye, all right Da." The lad ran off.

"What the hell am I going to do, Tommy?"

"Well, are you sure you can go and stay with Beth’s folk?"

"Oh aye. We can stay in Meggie’s room. She got married last year. Even if she hadn’t, they’d fit us in somewhere."

"Right. Like I said, this isn’t the first time we’ve had this in the street. Our Gerry works on McAllum’s coal-cart. He can borrow that and we’ll load your stuff onto it, and take it over to Seabank." He turned to a the man next to him.

"Harry, can your Eric go round to Greenhead Road, to our Gerry’s, and tell him to bring the horse and cart round here as soon as he can, because somebody’s being put out of their railway house. He’s done it a couple of times for us before, so he’ll know what’s going on."

"Mary, where’s our Eric?"

Harry McCall’s wife pushed through the crowd. "I’ll go and tell him. He’s playing football at the end of the road."

Harry took charge.

"Willie, Arthur, Tommy, come on. We’ll get the furniture out onto the pavement here so that, when the cart comes, we can get it loaded on. Sheila, Mary, Elsie, where’s Elsie? Come on Elsie. Youse help Beth get all the dishes and clothes and things ready and packed up so they can go on the cart as well. Mrs Ferguson, can you take the two weans into your house out of the way, so that we can get the work done without bothering them."

The cart came at eight o‘clock. By that time most of the household was on the pavement. It set off for Seabank at quarter past nine with the Sleanagh household on the back and the two children, warmly wrapped, obliviously asleep in a drawer under the driver’s bench. Fortunately, it was a warm, dry evening.

The eviction-squad arrived back from the Railway Bar at twenty past ten. Drunk, aggressive, and angry at being deprived of their fun, they broke the windows in the Sleanagh house before staggering off home.

It was half past twelve before Gerry Fisher left Quay Street with the horse and cart to return to the stable in Winton. The patient Queenie, was stabled at quarter to two in Winton, and was between the shafts again at eight o’clock the next morning to do her coal-round.

The following morning at eight o’clock Cormac was at the Eglinton Shipyard. He found Mr. Russell near the fitters’ stores.

"Mr. Russell, I got paid off at the Caledonian sheds. Is there any work going in the yard?"

"Hello, young Sleanagh. No, I’ve nothing open at the moment. Things are quiet. It’s been like that for a couple of months now. But we’ll be laying the keels for two coasters soon. We’ll know in the next week or two, exactly when. Come back every two or three days. It could be this week or next. It won’t be more than a month. You were a good worker. If you’re here at the right time, I’ll take you on."

A week later on the Wednesday morning, at the fourth visit, Mr. Russell told him to start on the labouring squad the following Monday.

"You keep your big mouth shut in there now," warned Beth, only half in fun.

"I will, believe me," replied Cormac in total earnest. "I will."

He was assigned to the platers’ section instead of the general labouring squad as before. Here, he fetched and carried for the tradesmen and apprentice platers, filed off rough edges of the cut plates and removed off-cut pieces of steel-plate to the scrap yard for return to the steel-works for re-smelting. It was hard manual work, and he became very fit.

*****

"Beth, I’ve just been talking to Ina McVeigh. I was down at the fish shop. You know how your daddy likes a bit of haddock on a Friday. Well, I was talking to Pat Murphy behind the counter and he was telling me that the price of cod’s getting awful dear, but that haddock’s still quite cheap. I said to him, I says, that’s good Pat, for my Jimmy doesn’t like cod, but he’d awful fond of a nice bit of haddock. Cod’s nearly ninepence a pound now, but haddock’s still only sevenpence. So I says to Pat, give me two pounds of the haddock, for we’ve got our Beth and Cormac and the two weans staying with us just now. Oh, he said. How’s that then, and I said that Cormac lost his job with the railway and got put out of the railway house. He said that he’d heard about somebody else that that happened to, but he couldn’t remember their name."

" Mother for goodness sake. What are you going on about. I know the price of a bit of haddock."

"Well, if you’d let me finish, you’d find out soon enough. When Pat said he’d heard about other folk having the same as you, Ina said she knew some folk that had been put out as well. But it wasn’t the railway that had put them out. It was some other work, but she couldn’t remember what. It was last year some time and it was some friends of her neighbours. You know the McNamaras, she lives next to them in Warner Street."

" Mother, please get to the point."

"Lizzy McNamara’s moving to a new house in Bank Street and she’s looking for somebody to sub-let the house in Warner Street to."

"For God’s sake, why didn’t you just say so? What did you say to her?"

"Nothing. Why would I say anything to her?"

"Did you not think to ask if the house was let out already?" Beth was already in the passage putting on her coat. "What number is the McNamara woman in Warner Street?"

"How do I know? She lives next to Lizzy."

"What number is Lizzy?"

"I don’t know. She lives somewhere at the top end, near the shops."

Beth ran out the door, buttoning her coat.

"I’m away up to see Mrs. McNamara." The door shut with a bang.

*****

Beth was waiting for Cormac at the gates of the yard when he finished his shift.

"Beth, what’s wrong? Are the bairns all right? What’re you doing here?"

"I’ve found us a house in Warner Street in Seabank. It’s a sub-let. What do you think of that? I came straight here from talking to the woman. I haven’t even been home to tell my mammy."

"That’s great. How did you do that?"

Beth explained.

"What are they asking for it?" Cormac wanted to know.

"She’s asking one and thruppence a week."

"What kind of house is it? That’s quite a lot."

"I know. It’s a single-end, same size as Robertson Street; just a wee living-room with a bed-recess and an even wee’er bedroom and a scullery."

"I suppose we haven’t got any choice. We’ll have to take it. Did you tell the woman we’d take it?"

"I did. I know I should have talked to you, but I was scared that somebody else would get it first."

"Aye, you did the right thing." He kissed her. "You’re a clever lass."

They walked off along the front towards Quay Street to tell Jimmy and Erna that they’d be moving at the week-end.

*****

"Hey, hey, hey. Colin, pack that in. Danny, stop it. For Christ’s sake that’s it. Cut it out." Colin Brown and Danny Taggart were facing up to each other beside the fitters’ store.

"Cormac, get out the road. I’ll punch his fucking teeth in. He’s not getting them slabs. I brought the fucking things over from the pile at the gate. Let the Orange bastard go and get his own fucking slabs."

"Hey Danny, don’t hit me. I never took your slabs."

"No, but he did. We’re supposed to be re-laying the path there between the fitters’ shop and the store with these new slabs. He’s pinching the slabs I’ve brought from the stack over there. I’m not a fucking labourer for him. Let him do his own fucking labouring, and get his own slabs from the pile."

"Look you Papish bastard, I’ve been in this squad for two years, and you’ve just started. Now, that means that you do the fucking carrying and I do the fucking laying."

"Easy, Colin. No need for calling him that; and you an’ all Danny, you mind your tongue. The church we go to doesn’t make us any better or worse at laying slabs."

"Danny, what did Mr. Russell tell youse to do?’

"The pair of us is to lay this path with them slabs. He never said that I was to be the labourer, humphing slabs for him to lay them. They’re bloody heavy. Let him carry them an’ all"

"He’s never laid a slab in his life. He wouldn’t know how to," said Colin.

"There’s nothing hard about laying slabs. Carrying them’s, the hard work. If he thinks I’m doing all the hard work, while he does the easy work, He’s got another think coming."

"Listen, Danny, I’ve carried slabs as well. And I’ve tried laying them. And I’ll tell you this. It’s a lot easier carrying the buggers than laying them. When you’re carrying them, at least you’re on your feet, and you can use your legs when you’re lifting them. When you’re kneeling down and trying to lay them, you’ve only got your back. Now that’s hard work. Now if you ask me, Colin’s doing you a favour giving you the easy bit. And, it’s not easy laying them either. There’s a knack to getting them just level. So why don’t you carry them while Colin lays them. Laying slabs is just as much labouring as carrying the bloody things. I’m telling you. Honest, you’ve got the best job of the two of you."

"He’s right, Danny. It’s not fucking easy on your knees getting these slabs just right. If you get a stack of slabs ready, I’ll show you how it’s done and later you can have a go." Danny could not fault their logic, and, with ill-grace, walked back to the stack of slabs at the gate.

"Danny’s all right Colin. He’s just young. He’s in with the wrong crowd, but I hope he’ll see what they’re like before too long. I’ve been trying to get him in with a better crowd, but you know what it’s like. Don’t be hard on him, otherwise you will turn him into a right fenian bastard."

"Aye, right, Cormac. You going to be at the training on Wednesday night?"

"If Beth’ll let me. It’s not easy when you’re married with a family. I’ve a notion, I’m going to have to stop the football."

"That’s a shame Cormac. You’re a grand outside-right. You’re wee and light and fast, and for a wee bugger, you can cross a good ball into the area. We’d miss you on the wing. Big Davey thinks you could get a game with the juniors if you put your mind to it."

"Aye, he’s told me that himself. I’d like it fine, but, ... ach, I don’t know. It takes a lot of your time, and there’s a lot of other things I want to do."

"Right, well, there’s Mr. Russell coming, and he’s got Allardyce with him.

We’d better get on or we’ll get our books. See you in the Winton at the weekend?"

"Aye, I’ll be in there on Friday night.

Cormac walked off in the direction of the stores.

"Who was that Mr. Russell?"

Ian Russell, the foreman over the general labouring squad, was the patriarch of the yard. As such, he was treated with respect by every-one, irrespective of rank or religion. Even Mr. Allardyce, the owner, called him Mr. Russell.

"You mean those three labourers, Mr. Allardyce?"

"Yes. Who’s the one walking over towards the stores?"

"New one; name of Sleanagh. Been in the platers’ squad for three or four months now. I had him about a year ago on the squad for the new slipway. We paid him off when it finished. Good wee worker; got a head on his shoulders too. Pity he’s Catholic. I could have recommended him for something better than labouring otherwise."

"Interesting." Alardyce paused. " Did you just hear what they were saying?"

"I did. I’ve seen Sleanagh doing that sort of thing before. He’s got quite a good influence on the young bucks in the squad; on both sides, funny enough."

"Interesting." Another pause. "Tell me, do you think we should do something about the sea-wall there? I see it’s starting to show some storm-damage at the far-end."

"I’ve been meaning to say something to somebody for a while now, Mr. Allardyce. It’s getting worse. The storm last month widened that big crack down at the bottom there. I think somebody should take a look at it."

*****

"How’r you doin’ there Danny?"

"Aye, all right." Danny Taggart was non-committal.

Cormac fell into step beside him as they went through the gates on their way home. It was a few weeks after the argument about the slabs.

"How are you getting on with Colin these days?"

"Him. He’s an Orange bastard. I stay well clear of them. Fucking animals."

"Come on Danny, Colin’s all right. There’s plenty of them that’s not, but Colin’s all right. Him and me play with the Clyde Thistle, and I see him in the Winton for a couple of pints now and then. He’s really a good lad. You want to come round and have a trial with us some night. I’ve seen you playing here in the yard at dinner-time. You’re good. You’d get into the team no bother at the Thistle. And we’re always looking for players."

"That Orange bunch. Not fucking likely. I don’t know how you can play for them. There’s a lot of them in the Gaelic Association that think you’re a fucking traitor, playing for them."

"There’s nobody in the Thistle that’s in the Lodge, Danny. Most of them are Protestants. A lot are nothing in particular, and there’s two or three of us that’s Catholics. It’s never mentioned. Nobody gives a damn what you are. That’s why I joined. They’re a good bunch of boys and it’s not a bad wee team either. Come round next Tuesday night for a trial. I’ll talk to big Davey McAllister that runs it, and tell him you’re coming."

"Fuck off. I had a trial with the Star of the Sea last week. I’m getting a game in the reserves this Saturday."

"Good for you. I knew you would be playing for a team sooner or later."

"Aye, well it certainly wouldn’t be for the fucking Clyde Thistle."

"I’m going in here for a pint before I go up the road. I’ll buy you one." Cormac turned into the Savoy Bar.

"Don’t think so Cormac. Real Catholics drink in Maguire’s. I’m going in there." Danny walked on.

*****

"Mr. Daly, I would like you to make up one of the labourers to tradesman’s-mate. Have you anything open at the moment?"

"Young McCutcheon’s coming on. I was going to give him a place with the fitters. I think there will be a place coming up there quite soon. Peter Boyd, the slinger-gaffer, has asked me to move his boy up. We’re going to have to let old Sandy Elliot go. He’s getting past it. We’ll make him a tea-boy. That’ll keep him going till he retires. Peter’s boy will probably be my choice to replace him.

We can use another plumbers-mate. I’ve promised Alec Sellers, the grand-master of the Winton Lodge, to keep that open for one of his members. He’ll let me know in a week or two who that will be. Calum Garton, he’s with the platers, just gave in his notice yesterday. I haven’t thought about that yet. That’s about it"

"Good. Give the platers job to Sleanagh. Talk to Mr. Russell about him. He’ll tell you all you need to know about the man. Mr. Russell knows him well. He worked on his squad before. Talk to Tom Warnock too. Sleanagh’s been labouring to the platers this last four months I believe.

A few days later, Roderick Daly, the production manager, approached Ian Russell. Daly, a small man with sleek, brilliantined hair was dwarfed by Russell’s six-foot frame. The shiny blue material of the production manager’s suit and his clean-shaven chin contrasted with the brown tweed and bushy beard of the foreman.

"Mr. Russell, good morning. Mr. Allardyce told me to arrange for one of the labourers, Sleanagh, to be made up to platers-mate. What can you tell me about him? Allardyce said you know him well."

"Good morning Mr. Daly. Aye, Sleanagh’s a good worker; smart; got a way with folk. He could convince you it was summer while you were up to your backside in snow. A good man; a Catholic."

"He’s what? Christ, has Allardyce gone mad altogether? Catholics have only ever been labourers in this yard. We can’t have a Catholic tradesman’s mate. We’re a Protestant yard for God’s sake. Bloody Catholics are only good for hewing wood and drawing water. They’re the damned labouring class. I’m not having this. Next thing, he’ll be making some damned Papist a tradesman. Over my dead body."

"Well, I’d rather you defied him than me. He’s awful fond of having his own way in his own shipyard. When you’re ready, let me know if you want to know about him."

Daly fumed off to his office.

The wind whistled through the metal beams that supported the roof of the cutting-shed. Cormac had never seen such a large, enclosed space before. Even after nearly two years working there, it still made him feel insignificant. Open at both ends, it was a bitterly cold place in the winter. The grey paint had flaked and blown away in the gales that blew off the firth, leaving a mixture of paint-remnants, dark-red rust and white streaks of bird-shit from the starlings that nested there in the spring.

From the east, Wee Sam, the mobile crane, brought the new steel plates from the steel-yard to be measured and cut. To the west, beyond the rolling-shed, was the cut-plate depot. The crane chuffed, groaned and screeched on its rails taking away yet another cut-plate to the rolling-shed.

Cut-plates, cut to size and shape, and, if necessary, curved in the rolling-mill, would be hoisted from the cut-plate depot into the slipway by Big Sam, the tower-crane. Here, they would be riveted onto the ships growing from keels into skeletons with ribs, to clothed hulls, to become the coasters and trawlers which plied the west coast of Scotland and the Irish Sea.

"Peter, We need a piece of three-eighths plate, fifteen by ten. Will you tell Archie Wilson in the shed to have the crane drop it on the cutting floor tomorrow so that Sammy Johnson can get it cut for the bow-section before the end of the week."

Cormac was starting 1898 as a plater’s mate. Tam Warnock, the foreman, had told him about his promotion the previous Friday, 31^st December. Cormac had spent the New Year in a haze of celebration.

Previously, as a labourer, when arranging a new plate from the shed, he had to ask a tradesman or an apprentice who was more that two years into his time to arrange it for him with Peter Boyd, the slinger-gaffer.

"Who the fuck d’you think you’re talking to?"

"Come on Peter, I got promoted from big Tam last night. I’m a platers- mate now."

"Is that right?"

"Aye. I didnae believe it myself. It feels like I just started last week."

"Well, we’ll see about that."

"How d’you mean. I’m a platers-mate, and I can order plate from the yard now, without going through a time-served man or apprentice any more."

"I’m no’ taking any fucking orders from any fucking Papist, platers-mate or no’."

Cormac had always got on with Peter Boyd. This, he had not expected. He had a word with Tam Warnock.

"Peter Boyd seems to have a problem with me being a tradesman’s mate."

Tam sighed. "I was feart for that."

"How d’you mean Tam?"

"Cormac, I don’t know if you know it, but you’re the first Catholic that’s not just a labourer. There’s not a lot of Catholics here at all, but what there is, is all labourers."

"I never gave it a thought."

"Well, it’s time you did Cormac. For it’s not going to be easy. Daly was against it. He spoke to Mr. Allardyce, but Allardyce was determined. I’ll talk to Peter."

Two days later, the plate arrived on the cutting-floor. It was quarter-inch plate. It took another two days for the correct, three-eighths plate to be delivered.

"You’re late with that bow-plate Cormac."

"Aye. I know. They gave me the wrong thickness the first time."

"Well make sure you tell them the right thickness the next time. All right?"

"Aye. All right, sorry Tam."

*****

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