Sláinte! The Strawberry Beds Job

By Roy Hunt

Dublin in the 1980s; a building site in the west of the city.
An Irish version of Auf Wiedersehen Pet
Summer 1984; the Irish economy is bankrupt and jobs are scarcer than hen’s teeth.
Sláinte! Tells the tale of seven lads on their uppers who get a hand up from foreman Mike Stone. They are all in one kind of trouble or another. The one thing that bonds them together is their need for the work, the money and somewhere to lay their weary heads at night.
The foreman has a hut that will save them money on bad, damp or too expensive digs. Reluctantly they move in together on the site on Martin’s Row in Chapelizod. An area close to Dublin’s famous Strawberry Beds. The one advantage is the comfort of the Mullingar House pub nearby.
Labourer Liam Kelly quickly becomes known among the lads as ‘the bird-bandit’ because his favourite hobby is chasing skirt. His dream is to someday have his own small crew. He has nothing going for him only a strong back and a quick wit. He has never worked on a building site before. He is escaping a miserable existence on a small uneconomic farm-holding in the west of Ireland.
Ted Hughes is a young inexperienced crane driver hoping to survive his first real job. His father’s small company from the Deep-Water quay in Sligo has gone broke due to an inept accountant. An awful lot is riding on his young shoulders. Kelly takes an immediate dislike to Hughes because as he sees it, ‘daddy’ has given him an unfair advantage in life.
Electrician Andy Harpur has left his hometown of Mountmellick in Co Laois to prove himself a man and win the respect of his girlfriend’s rich father. Nancy Wainwright’s father owns the largest hardware store in town and one hundred and fifty acres of prime land with a dairy herd worth thousands. All Harpur has to offer her is a grotty van and the title ‘self-employed.’ But as soon as Andy is off the scene, her father sets Nancy up with a rich distant cousin from America.
Vince Gilligan and Mark Gara are the oldest members of the crew. They are shuttering carpenters and hard men. Both have lost partners and wives due to drink and too much time away from home. Gara is from Drumshanbo in Co Leitrim. There is nothing to go back to there. Gilligan is from Limerick. But he won’t return because his wife has left him for another man and Gilligan can’t trust himself to keep his hands off him if they cross paths.
Steve Dempsey is an experienced banksman and slinger from troubled Darndale in North Dublin. Dempsey is in his mid-thirties, with two beautiful blue lady killer eyes shining out from under a tousled sandy-coloured head of hair that is usually all dust from site work. He is young Hughes’ banksman and helping Hughes survive his first job. Dempsey loves the crack and a pint, but he has marriage problems. He arrives home one evening to discover his wife, Celia has cut it out for Benalmadena in Spain.
Carpenter Leo Egan is sleeping rough in his van behind the wall of the Phoenix Park not far from where they are working. The site borders the park wall. He was living with his wife and one daughter in her father’s hotel in Portlaoise, but the old man, once a hard-working plant man, has turned to drink. Old age and ill-health have made him bitter. When Leo points this out to him one night over a few too many, he tells Leo to get out. Leo does just that and now must make enough money to support his wife and child or return to the hotel a beaten man.
Holding them all together is site foreman Mike Stone, nicknamed ‘Hamlet’ by the lads because he loves the slim Hamlet cigars as a mini-celebration after a successful concrete pour. Mike is the company director, along with his brother David, of Advanced Builders. Stone has his own issues. Things are not going well with his wife. And then David informs him that the company they are sub-contracted to might be going bankrupt. If it does, all their hard years will be flushed down the drain. And worse, there wi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Hunt
• Release date: Nov 18, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005799908

Roy Hunt

I am an author in my sixties living in Roscommon, Ireland. At the moment I am researching and writing in two different genres.The first book I call 'Fr John Winter: worse things than dying.' It is a science versus religion scenario set in Athlone and partly in the US. After a period working with my father on a water treatment scheme in Athlone in the 1980s I became fascinated with the medieval town. My stories are set around and in Athlone and the local lake, Lough Ree. The lake has over fifty islands and at least twenty of those have legends attached to them and have been inhabited at some point. In my first book, Mutation, I added a fictional island of my own and I have added another for my second novel, 'Fr John Winter: worse things than dying.' This present book draws on my own experience and research I carried out on Lough Ree, Athlone and eugenics, a subject I researched in depth and became intrigued with.My other 'franchise' (as I like to call it), is based on a group of guys working on construction in Ireland in the 1980s. I have based this book on my own experience working on sites in the 1970s and '80 all over Ireland. This work will also shortly be available on Smashwords on preorder. Think of it as an Irish equivalent of Auf Wiedersehen Pet. :)I put many years of research into Fr Winter, especially on psychic phenomena (Did you know, the author of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, was fascinated by the subject?) and eugenics and the science of DNA manipulation (recombinant DNA technology) A gained a BA and an M.Litt in later years which was a great help in doing this research.My Construction guys took a lot less research. I have managed to produce the first book in a year. The second one is three-quarter finished. I hope you will enjoy my stories as much as I have enjoyed putting these worlds together. I have always, from an early age, wanted to write, and I feel so lucky to now finally be getting that opportunity.Thank you and keep reading. Writers are nothing without our readers.

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All characters in this book are fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Table of contents

Copyright

Author’s note

Chapter 1 The Start

Chapter 2 The Hut

Chapter 3 Liam Kelly goes for a pint

Chapter 4 Taking stock and fruit market pickers

Chapter 5 Andy sees a mysterious stranger

Chapter 6 Haunted Site

Chapter 7 Kelly and Hughes dine together

Chapter 8 Leo’s van

Chapter 9 The hut arrives

Chapter 10 Pub talk with prospects

Chapter 11 A date

Chapter 12 The Strawberry Beds Motel

Chapter 13 Driving to a funeral

Chapter 14 Ted’s date with Megan

Chapter 15 Mike Stone meets his brother

Chapter 16 The funeral

Chapter 17 The mass

Chapter 18 Steve Dempsey’s weekend

Chapter 19 Money troubles

Chapter 20 Buying Leo’s van back

Chapter 21 The jeep arrives; Ted worries about Steve

Chapter 22 Dempsey goes undercover

Chapter 23 Steve back on site

Chapter 24 The meeting

Chapter 25 Vivian Conway

Chapter 26 Pay me, please

Chapter 27 The Garda

Chapter 28 The sense of an ending

Acknowledgments

Other books by Roy Hunt

About the author

Please leave a review

Author’s Note

Comradeship is one of the most important things men can have. I didn’t want to admit it for years. We all want to be seen as tough men, lone wolves’ types, especially perhaps building site guys. And many are, to a certain extent. But there is another side to that same coin. Men love going to the pub for the crack, to listen to a great song, or a heartfelt recitation. Many can sing (I personally knew a shuttering carpenter who had a voice like honey. He could have been a country and western singer, like when in the comedy/drama Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, the plumber said to the lads when Oz was singing that song in the pub, ‘that guy is wasted bricklaying’. Hardworking men love art expressed in story or song. A few on the AWP Facebook site of which I’m a proud member have admitted that the reason they follow the series is for the comradeship between the lads. It takes a while, but it slowly builds up into a series that when taken as a whole, means something greater than its parts.

Sláinte! The Strawberry Beds is an Irish version of those times and those struggles. I hope those of you not native to these shores can make the journey across to Ireland and get some enjoyment from these lads, the same as many here made that same journey to the UK with Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.

A second book featuring these lads is almost through the first draft as I write this.

Thanks for reading.

Chapter 1

The Start

June 1984, a west Dublin building site

Mike Stone watched anxiously as the twenty-ton, 22 series Ruston-Bucyrus crawler crane, its yellow hook swinging from the boom, clambered up the hill towards the top of the site. The hill was seriously steep, one slip and the lot would be a pile of scrap at the bottom, and the site hut was in its path.

Does that young fella know what he’s at? Stone was the site foreman. He was anxiously addressing the crane’s banksman, a Dubliner called Steve Dempsey. Stone’s brother David and he were the main subcontractors and owners of Advanced Builders, the company building the block of apartments they were working on. The main contractor was Tower Holdings. Stone stood six-one in his stockings and was built of muscle and bone. There wasn’t a pick of fat on him. His greatest vice was a slim Hamlet cigar after a successful concrete pour and a pint after work. His other great love was his small cottage in the west of Ireland. Dempsey had seen it, nestled down a side road outside Longford; a beautiful place to wake up to on a Saturday morning after a few pints the night before. Stone’s idea of a holiday, Dempsey knew, was two weeks in August saving hay on the twenty acres attached to the small cottage.

He’s young right enough, replied Dempsey. Dempsey knew Stone well; they had worked on other sites together. And Stone knew Dempsey was a good judge of a crane operator. He had banked many a crane in his day. His father Martin, when he was here earlier, said he was sound. He told the father to go, seemingly, that he had it. He’s slow, but so far he’s safe. He seems steady enough. Dempsey, at thirty-five, was younger than the fifty-four-year-old foreman. With a shock of sandy-coloured hair and brown skin, they nicknamed him ‘the Italian job’. Dempsey was a big hit with women, Stone knew. He was married, with a wife and two kids, living in a rough estate in Darndale in the north of Dublin. Stone reckoned when you were as good looking as Dempsey there wasn’t much you could do. A lot of the time, Stone noticed, when they were out for a pint, he didn’t even have to bother, the women took one look at him across a crowded bar and came to him.

Well, watch him. Normally, it’s much older guys operate those things. Keep well out of his way until we get to know him – or trust him, if we ever do. I don’t want anyone hurt or killed on this job.

No problem, Mike. Dempsey moved away up the hill after the crane. It was old, a relic that had been worked to death in England, imported into Ireland, purchased and repaired and put back into service. The whole Irish construction sector ran on worked out machinery imported from England, Dempsey reckoned. But the kid seemed okay. Dempsey had helped them set up the crane. Ted’s father, Martin Hughes, was a large, powerful man with massive hands, but happy and good humoured. He complained that the revenue had ‘destroyed him’ and that he was trying to get back on his feet. This wasn’t hard to believe. In 1980s Ireland, every builder or plant man Dempsey met hated the Irish Revenue, or feared them.

Ted Hughes was sweating in the cab. At just twenty years old, Hughes had been told by his father he was more than likely the youngest crane driver presently operating in Dublin. There isn’t many twenty-year-olds with their own crane, Martin had said proudly. Ted supposed he should be proud, but right now all he could think about was the next job in front of him. One lift at a time, he told himself. If I can do one safely, I can do two and so on. This was how the day had gone so far.

He was five-eleven and stick thin. In the mirror, he could see the outline of his own ribs beneath his skin. He didn’t smoke but suffered from severe asthma. He did, however, feel very partial to a pint and wanted badly to go looking for a nice pair of legs in a short skirt. It was early June and roaring hot. The roar of the Lincon YEN air-cooled engine was shaking the brain in his head. He had ear muffs but had forgotten to bring them. He wouldn’t forget again. He had this; he could do it. He was still stunned by the speed events had moved at. One minute working for his father in the yard on the docks in Sligo, the next, sitting on a crane on a Dublin building site. For God’s sake, he’d better not muck this up. Digging lock first in, last out, was the mantra his father had drilled into his head before leaving. If the digging lock isn’t in, son, you’re a goner. You’ll land down at the bottom of that hill and maybe kill someone as well, he said. He had it, he had it.

As he reached the top of the hill, he had to make another turn to his right. This was even more dangerous, because now if anything happened, the back ballast of the crane was overlooking the road below. It was a sheer drop. He would have to get used to it because this job was expected to last about five months and he would spend a lot of time on this hill, shuttering and concreting and hoisting up bricks and blocks for the new apartments being built. The site was near the Strawberry Beds area of Chapelizod on the city’s west side, on a site called Northcliff, on Knockmaroon Hill. The road below him was known as Martin’s Row.

Already the pressure was on. He had to do a pour in a few minutes. He looked down the hill and his heart rate picked up a notch. The ten-wheeler orange coloured Hino truck with the giant steel revolving bottle mixer was roaring its way up the hill behind him. He had to do this, he told himself. The other option was his father having to replace him with another driver. And he didn’t ever want to live with that shame.

He stopped at the four columns that were to be poured. They weren’t very large, maybe about four tons of concrete in total. But they were a good bit out and he might have to tell the driver not to fill the skip all the way up for the first two, the two furthest away. Gradually, with his banksman’s help, he got into position. He had never met any of the men before and felt at a disadvantage. It was obvious many of them knew each other. Dempsey looked to Hughes to be hardy. He had startling blue eyes and his sandy coloured hair was always covered in dust. But he seemed friendly enough, if cautious. Hughes could understand this, he supposed. He had to trust him, too. Dempsey slung the vibrator and he hoisted it towards the waiting crew of three men. Without looking at him, one of them directed him to lower the vibrator. The youth, maybe roughly the same age as himself, suddenly smiled and gave him a thumbs up and directed him to swing back for the generator.

Meanwhile, Ted got down from the crane and approached the mixer driver.

What? the driver of the concrete lorry said. Is that a crane or not?

Look, it’s a good bit out. Please, just half fill the skip for the two furthest out.

I can’t be here all day you know. I have other places to go.

Ya. Sorry.

The driver laughed. Don’t worry, son. I’m just ribbing you. We don’t want you to turn over, do we?

Ted smiled and said, Thanks. He got back into his crane and moved the skip into position.

Concrete, heavy and moist, poured from the back of the truck into the skip.

The driver, as good as his word, only allowed the skip to half fill with concrete. With a thumbs-up signal, Ted hoisted the skip away from the back of the lorry out into open space. Two men stood on the edge of the twenty foot column, one each side, waiting for him.

Dempsey could see there was no need to signal him, he could see the men, and one of them, the young guy, banked him the last important few inches.

From the bank, Dempsey watched carefully. The boy on the column, which was about four foot square, banking Hughes the last few important inches, was Liam Kelly, from Ballyhaunis in County Mayo. He had got a job labouring on the site. Dempsey liked him but didn’t yet trust him. He had met kids like him before and what they lacked in knowledge, they made up for in bluff. He had once heard surviving when you had no skills to offer as living by ‘wit, grit and bullshit.’

An hour later, it was done – Ted Hughes’ first pour on the site was completed safely.

They retired to the hut for a cup of tea.

There were about fifteen men in the hut in total. But Hughes only had to deal mostly with the crew from Advanced Builders. He glanced quickly around him. They were okay guys, he began to realise and he supposed, away from the dirt and dust of the site, had other lives, just like him. Looking at them now though, it was hard to picture it.

Ted looked over at the wiry foreman. Stone had settled in with just a mug of tea, a plain sandwich and a morning paper. His banksman, Steve Dempsey, seemed completely carefree, ready to have the crack with anyone. He didn’t seem to have a care in the world. Steve was a solid man, a native Dubliner judging by his accent.

Another of the crew was one of the experienced labourers, Mark Gara. Gara had gone over to the crane when he first met Ted and introduced himself. Mark was from Drumshanbo in County Leitrim and was a thirty-something well-built man. He was an experienced shuttering carpenter and concrete man. When he had shaken hands with Ted, Ted had felt like his hand was in a vice. He was low and broad with a shock of jet-black hair. He had massive hands with thick fingers that looked like miniature human fence posts. Next to him, reading the Irish Times newspaper, was the electrician, a guy called Andy Harpur. Andy was educated, Ted guessed, because he didn’t like the tabloids and instead of the usual fare of ham or beef or cheese sandwiches that did everyone else, including Ted, Andy made up a ham salad covered in a tea cloth.

Who’s the caravan at the top of the hill? Vince Gilligan asked. Gilligan was a shuttering carpenter and concreter, a tall, wiry, vicious looking man in his early forties, Ted calculated. He was bronzed from the sun with close-cropped dark brown hair. He had teeth missing in the front of his mouth and this gave him a mean, mad dog look. Ted couldn’t see what colour his eyes were, maybe black. He always came to work with a long brown coat that he dumped in the hut and picked up again in the evening. Ted figured at some point the coat was probably expensive. It looked like it might be cashmere, but Gilligan had ruined it. He made Ted nervous every time he asked him to do a lift. Ted hoped he hid his nervousness well. He worked alongside Mark Gara all the time.

Mine, Ted said.

You’re staying in a caravan on-site? The wages must be poor, Gilligan said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

We brought it with us, it’s handy if you get broken down. It’ll do until I find a flat or something, Ted finished lamely. It was his first time in Dublin, he had no clue where he was except by looking on the map.

Don’t stay too long, brother, Steve Dempsey said. You’ll get mugged if your luck is out.

Ah, I’ll be sound, Ted said with a good deal more confidence than he felt.

There’s a night watchman on site for security, the carpenter, Leo Egan said. He was from Tipperary and spoke with a drawl that made him hard to make out. Egan looked to Ted similar to a seventies hippy type. He was about five-ten, slight of build and in his early thirties. He strolled around the site, usually with a claw hammer dangling from his lean fingers, with his shirt hanging out and his jeans all torn and frayed. He had a small black moustache and a goatee.

Ted was covered in sweat under the overalls. He wondered how he was going to wash later. All he had was a black water hose near the caravan that he used to get water to drink, for making tea and washing the vegetables. He tried to eat as best he could in the small caravan. There was no electricity hooked up. All he had was the gas lamps that came attached with the caravan. They had wicks that could be adjusted to lower or brighten the light. It was June, so it was bright until almost ten o’clock so that didn’t worry him very much at the moment. They were supposed to be here for five months, so he guessed he’d have to find a place. He didn’t want to spend the whole time in the caravan. It was hard enough now to boil water for washing.

Ted looked from the crane out to where the lads were vibrating the concrete to make it settle better. They were just after pouring their first floor. Ten metres of concrete, the crane’s biggest pour since arriving on site. It was Friday. Soon it would be evening; he couldn’t wait to get off. He wasn’t going home to Sligo. He had decided to stay in town and see if he could find some place nearby to stay.

Rough going in that caravan? Liam Kelly, maybe nineteen or twenty, had jumped up on the running board beside him. Ted looked at him with a little frustration and unease. He didn’t take lightly to over-familiarity. He knew Kelly was good with the women, he had heard the talk. And Ted wasn’t. He tried to tell himself that was not the reason he didn’t take to Liam Kelly. He swung away from the men, dropping the skip to where Mark Gara was ready with a water hose to wash it out. Gara indicated to hold it a little off the ground so that he could open and close the shutter bottom.

It’s okay for the summer, Ted replied. But I guess I don’t want to be there for the autumn.

Kelly held on to the side handle of the crane and shuffled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket with the other. He had thick lips and a slightly freckled face and what he had heard women call ‘two sleepy, sexy brown eyes.’ Maybe it was the eyes that did it for the women, Ted thought. By comparison, he knew his eyes looked weak and watery, as did his father’s.

I’m staying with my sister in Lucan, Kelly said.

In the village? Ted asked.

Yes, well, just outside the village itself. The thing is I have to be so careful; no smoking indoors, no coming in with the smell of drink on my breath, and you can’t bring home a kill if you know what I mean. At least it’s not damp. I was in a damp bedsit for the first week here. I had to get out or I’d be dead.

I can’t handle damp either, Ted said. I have asthma. I’d be done for after one night.

I wasn’t faring too well either, Kelly replied.

Neither spoke as Ted followed the directions of his banksman, Steve Dempsey, to swing back and pick up the vibrator and generator. Kelly watched in admiration despite himself as Ted manoeuvred the crane.

You’re young for this. How did you get into crane driving?

My father is one. His company owns the crane, Ted replied.

Kelly dragged on the cigarette. Not so bad, he said, as drew smoke deep into his lungs. He hopped down and went back to the pour where he would soon be needed again.

Vince Gilligan approached him and signalled for a lift. Ted made a thumbs-up sign to acknowledge that he would get to him as soon as he lifted in the floater so the lads could begin floating the concrete later on.

What was Kelly on about? he asked.

It occurred to Ted he could avoid the question. It wasn’t any of Vince Gilligan’s business. But Ted was never rude, it was beyond him, so he said, He was on about the caravan I’m staying in.

We’re staying in a dump on the quays, Gilligan said. Gara and me.

Ted nodded. He had heard the lads nicknamed Gilligan ‘Vicious’ for short.

As they spoke, a sandy coloured head passed under the jib of the crane, carrying a roll of wire. Gilligan shouted at him, Hey, young Harpur, how are they hangin’? Harpur was about the only one of them who was overweight. His face was covered in sweat and his shirt stuck to his heavy body. He appeared exhausted. Ted noticed he had soft hands and wondered how he would fare here among these men. Harpur was in his late twenties, Ted reckoned, and appeared constantly cautious, if not downright scared or worried looking most of the time.

Andy stopped and turned towards Gilligan. What’s up? he said. He approached the crane and stood looking up at Vince standing on the running board above the tracks and Ted sitting behind the controls. He squinted in the strong sun, looking at the bewildering array of levers in front of the driver. What in the name of jessus are all those for? he said up to Hughes. Ted looked down at him and replied with a smile, You only use one or two at a time.

Where are you stayin’? Gilligan asked the electrician.

Ted noticed that Harpur spoke much more softly than the others, almost as if he were nervous or timid.

Over the shop in the village, he said. On Martin’s Row.

You like it there?

Do I, hell. I have to be out of my boots and in by seven or I get no dinner. I can’t make a sound at night or even go out for a pint.

At least you’re warm and not in a damp kip, Vince said.

You’re in that caravan? The electrician jerked a thumb up at the caravan. It was perched right up at the top of the site against the Phoenix Park wall. Trees from a neighbouring property overlooked it.

Yes, said Ted. But only until I get a flat.

Forget that. Gilligan pulled a cigarette from his pocket and offered one to Ted who said he didn’t smoke and then one to Harpur, who took one. The flats around here are rip-offs. If they are any good, they cost too much. I guarantee that if you can afford one, they are damp or too small. Of course, he said then, looking slyly at the crane driver, you might be better off than us, working for your father?

Ted jumped to his own defence immediately. I get a working wage, just like you guys, he said.

Well then, Gilligan said, you won’t find a flat around here that isn’t a feckin’ rip-off and a damp dump.

So, what are we supposed to do then? Ted felt a bit aggravated. What did he want him to do about it?

At lunchtime, they all gathered in the hut and the conversation got around again to accommodation.

So … how’s life in the caravan? Gilligan asked. His six-two frame was stretched out and his legs went all the way under the table and could have tripped up someone on the other side, they were so long. He was an all-rounder and experienced on building sites, Ted was given to understand.

Okay, said Ted a bit warily. He was having trouble hiding how nervous he felt around the shuttering carpenter. Anytime he directed him he always seemed impatient and aggressive.

You can’t stay there too long, mate. You’ll be robbed. There are young fellas up in those trees across the wall from your caravan.

Ted was convinced Gilligan was leg-pulling. He just smiled but didn’t answer.

You think I’m joking, Gilligan said. You’ll see tonight.

What the hell did he mean by that? He didn’t want to reply but his curiosity got the better of him.

What do you mean, I’ll see tonight? Ted asked.

Just ask the night watchman, can’t you? I thought you’d have copped it by now. Ah, never mind, you’ll find out. Gilligan slapped his paper with his hand to straighten it and to show this part of the conversation was over.

Thank god the weekend’s coming, Mark Gara said.

Ted glanced at Gara. According to Liam Kelly, he had almost killed a man in a fight in London. He was supposed to be very strong and an ex-boxer. But Kelly might have been winding him up.

Yere’ havin’ accommodation problems, Mike Stone drawled with a smile. I might be able to help out there. But that was all he would say and he left the others wondering for the rest of the day what he was on about.

Chapter 2

The Hut

June-July

A hut, why the hell would we stay in a hut? We’re bad enough. Andy Harpur shoved his hands deep into his pockets. The evening was already cooling and Andy looked uncomfortable as usual, Kelly noticed.

But on this occasion, he had to agree with the electrician. A hut? He laughed. Jeeses, we’re bad enough without going into a hut.

How many of you are in digs you’re not happy with? Mike Stone asked patiently, appearing to take no offence, although the hut was his idea. It was six o’clock and they had just finished. They were huddled in a group at the bottom of the hill near the exit onto the road.

Well, I’m not, Kelly admitted. He was a good-looking bloke, even when covered in dust as he was now. I have to leave my boots in the garage and tip toe into the house in my socks. If they’re all mud, they’re freezing in the morning. ‘Don’t touch the walls, don’t get dirt on the carpet or the stairs banister, watch the bedclothes!’ It’s like living in a doll’s house.

Stone smiled and dragged on his cigar, a Hamlet, his favourite.

Harpur said, I’m staying over the shop in the village. It’s okay now but I’m going to get pneumonia once the weather changes and... well, the toilet makes weird sounds. Plus, I can’t come in with the smell of even one pint on me.

Stone smiled. Harpur was about five feet nine inches in height, which was helpful for an electrician; the only problem was he had a lot of weight and puppy fat that needed burning off, Stone reckoned. The electrician had a mop of sandy-blond hair which needed cutting. He had developed the habit of blowing it away from his face. His overall body language was one of nervous anxiety. Stone wondered if he would stay the course at all.

Mark Gara and Vince Gilligan were both staying in a B&B on the quays. The quays bordered the river Liffey on both sides as it ran through Dublin city and into Dublin Bay on its way to the sea. The B&Bs on the quays were numerous, many were downtrodden and a lot depended on your income. Mark Gara said, We’re looking for a flat, but all the ones that are cheap are mostly dumps. As we are now, there’s nothing to do in the evening but go to the pub. It’s either that or look at the four walls until bedtime. An asylum would be more cheerful.

Kelly lit up a cigarette and watched as Ted Hughes made his way down the ramp after shutting down the crane. He’s young to be driving a crane, he remarked as he dragged on a fag.

You’re young, Mike Stone said.

Yes, but I’m not a crane driver. How did he get driving so young?

His father was one, he trained him in, Stone said. He’s sound, or we wouldn’t have him on site.

Kelly shrugged. Hughes had said as much. Good for some. Kelly sounded unhappy.

Here he comes now. Gara had also spotted Hughes making his way down the steep hill of the site. He was about five eleven but looked even taller as he was skinny. His hair was matted with dirt and dust.

Jesus, said Stone, when did he last wash? The others laughed.

Harpur said, It’s not easy to wash when all you have is a plastic pipe outside on the ground to get water.

Stone dragged on his cigar. We had less for a while in the Shetlands, he said. The others looked at him but said nothing.

Ted Hughes joined the group at the bottom of the hill near the tool hut. Well, he said. What’s up?

We’re being moved, Kelly said, with a sly grin, into a shed.

Hughes laughed. What?

Leo Egan’s wiry frame was coated in sweat. His long black hair was all dust and his full lips were cracked from dryness and heat. The black moustache and goatee were grey with site dust. Liam Kelly noticed how his words often ran together, which made him hard to understand. He said now, The boss wants us to move into a hut. Running water, a shower, a small kitchen and a wood stove in the middle for when the autumn chill sets in. We can put it here, he said, pointing behind him to where the tool hut was parked.

And it will be hooked up to the electricity, Stone reminded them. He mentioned it for Hughes’ sake as he had only just joined them. What about you, Ted, you can’t stay in that caravan for the duration of the job.

We could freeze in a flaming hut, Harpur said. He always looked too cold or too hot. Ted smiled to himself. Andy Harpur looked perpetually uncomfortable in every situation. He was hardly cut out for building site work at all. But the word was, he was a good safe electrician, very conscientious.

Well, Hughes, what do you reckon, or is Daddy going to set you up in a fine flat? Liam Kelly said.

The others looked uncomfortable but it was up to Hughes to fend for himself.

No, he replied. I thought I might winter in the West County. Feck all that cooking in a flat, let room service bring me my meals.

They all laughed and even Kelly had to smile. The West County was a reference to the hotel across the river from them on the Lucan Road, the main road to the west out of town. On a Friday night it was a ribbon of red lights as everyone made their way back to the west for the weekend. There was no work in the West of Ireland. The lucky ones got it in Dublin, the rest had to head for America. Even the UK was struggling, its economy stagnated. Word had it British bricklayers were working out in Germany.

You won’t freeze, Andy, said Stone, patiently. I told you, there’s a stove in it and it’s fully kitted out with plugs, which will be hooked up to the electricity so we can have heaters as well, but I’m telling you, those wood-burning stoves are mighty jobs. You’ll be in your shirt sleeves, most of the time.

Where will we get wood? asked Harpur.

Oh, mother of jeesus, Gilligan groaned at this question. Gilligan made Andy nervous. The tall, lean shuttering-carpenter looked perpetually angry as if he was about to lose his cool at any moment. So far, he had said next to nothing to Andy. He worked mostly with the other labourer, Mark Gara, shuttering and concreting along with the crane. Andy had rarely to communicate with him.

There’s plenty of guys around here will supply it, Stone said. We can keep it from the rain in a corner of the tool hut.

What do you mean, ‘we’? asked Gilligan.

He doesn’t miss much, thought Ted. He had noticed Stone’s remark as well.

Ya, Kelly said. You’ll be toasting your toes to the fire in Lucan, boss.

The others laughed. Stone was married and had a home in Lucan.

The wife is with her mother in Cork and the two kids are in the US, visiting their mother’s brother. The house in Lucan is under major renovations. The heating’s switched off and there is no electricity or running water. Stone grimaced and added, I’m staying with my sister-in-law in Finglas. That’s not exactly working out that well. Turns out she isn’t that fond of cigar smoke. Figures it’s not good for the kids’ lungs and that it smells out the room.

So, you’d be moving in too? asked Harpur.

"Unless you don’t want the foreman