‘What line are you?’ Tom insisted.
‘Diamond,’ came the reluctant reply. The man had a strong Glaswegian accent.
‘Never heard of it,’ Tom said, deliberately offensive in return.
But he knew enough about these small lines to be alarmed: little fly-by-night one-ship outfits with safety records that never bore looking at, willing to go anywhere and pick up anything. God only knew what was awaiting them down in the hold. He felt offended, both personally and on behalf of the others. They were sugar men.
‘What you got down there?’ he shouted down the hatches.
‘Sacks of something bloody awful,’ came a disgruntled reply. ‘Fishmeal.’
Grumbling, they started getting it into the first set of the day, lifting up the ends of the sacks with their hooks and slipping the rope strop underneath. Tom waved the crane jib over. The truckers cleared the last of yesterday’s cargo off the quay. The day’s work began. Rising and bending, lifting and slinging, with hardly a moment between one set and the next to run and relieve themselves, the treadmill of labour would have numbed the mind if it had not been for the jokes and the backchat. The rain came steadily down, soaking clothes and chilling backs and shoulders already aching. The stench from the hold seemed to grow worse as the morning progressed.
At midday the truckers were given an hour’s dinner break. They were not paid when they were not working, and the stuff could sit on the quay till they got back. The shipworkers were given twenty minutes, as the vessel had to be emptied as fast as possible to be turned round. Every day in the dock was costing her owners money.
Tom walked stiffly down on to the quay. He might just have enough time to get something off a stall before getting back to work. There’d been nothing left in the house to eat this morning after they had their bread and scrape for breakfast, so he had not been able to bring anything with him. On the quay he saw Wilkins, visibly failing.
‘You all right, mate?’ Tom asked.
‘Yeah, ’course. What’s the matter? Think I’m not pulling my weight?’
Tom looked at his undernourished frame. He probably had not eaten properly for days.
‘Just don’t let Grant spot you,’ he advised.
By mid-afternoon they had the fishmeal cleared. The rain had still not eased up. If anything, it was coming down harder, a relentless grey curtain that had now soaked them all to the skin, making clothing heavy and clinging, hampering movement. Even the men in the hold were getting wet when they moved the stuff under the hatchway, and the cargo was becoming damp. Tom heard exclamations coming up from below.
‘Bloody hell, someone’s made a poor job of stowing this lot.’
‘Will you look at what’s happened to these decks!’
‘They’re leaking. Look, the dullage has shifted and punctured the sides of the bloody barrels. The stuff’s run out on to the deck.’
‘Whole bloody ship’s leaking. You can smell the rot.’
Tom peered down into the gloom. ‘What’s up?’
A couple of the men were directly under him, manhandling some steel barrels into place.
‘It’s these things. Some of ’em are cracked. You should see what it’s done to the deck underneath ’em. Eaten into the timber, it has.’
Already they had the first set assembled. Tom waved the crane up.
‘What the hell is it?’ he asked, as the load swung over and down on to the quay. ‘Some sort of acid?’
‘Caustic soda,’ someone told him.
‘Yeah, make soap out of that, they do. Puts you off washing, don’t it?’
It all fell into place. That was it. That was why Grant took on all those most desperate for work. If they wanted the money enough they would be willing to handle stuff that could burn into their hands and damage their eyes. He looked at the sorry specimens toiling down on the quay, then along the dockside at the empty berths. Grant had done his job well. These men knew better than to refuse. What he could not work out was why the foreman had taken him on. He must have known that the promise of no trouble had been no promise at all. The only answer that made any sense was that Grant wanted a dispute just so that he could win. He wanted to make an example of Tom in front of the other men, so that the word would go out round the docks.
As if summoned by thought, Grant appeared. The crane jib was swinging back to take the next set.
‘Be careful with them. I don’t want any breakages,’ he said.
‘Why, are they dangerous?’ Tom asked, a picture of innocence.
Grant shot him a warning look. ‘It’ll be dangerous for you if they’re dropped. You’ll be off the job.’
Tom looked at the barrels. They were safe enough when they were sound, but not if they were leaking somewhere. He called down to the men in his gang who were setting about lifting them.
‘Wait. This needs to be talked over.’
They looked from him to Grant, uncertain.
‘What are you listening to him for? Is he the one who gives out the tickets? I said get them out and be careful, so get on with it.’
One or two men started to lift the barrels but most stood where they were. They knew Tom Johnson. Even if they had not worked with him before, they had heard of him. They knew he talked sense, and that he was on their side.
‘Do you know what that is that you’re handling?’ he asked them.
‘Caustic soda,’ someone said.
‘Yeah, and do you know what it does to you if it get in your eyes? Blinds you, that’s what. You wouldn’t be much use to no one if that happened, I can tell you.’
The men stirred and muttered. Those who were handling the barrels let them down again and moved over to the hatchway. Seeing the stoppage, the gangs on the quay paused in the unloading and trucking and looked up at the ship to find out what was going on.
‘If you don’t drop the bloody things it won’t get on your skin, will it?’ Grant reasoned. ‘I warned you, Johnson: no trouble. You were all taken on to unload this ship. Now get on with it.’
Tom held up a hand. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.
‘Those barrels are unsafe,’ he stated.
‘Not if they’re handled properly,’ Grant insisted. ‘If you lot are careless, that’s your own bloody fault, ain’t it?’
‘They’re leaking. You can see it in the hold, you can see what the stuff’s done to the decks.’
‘I can’t see nothing. Like I said, Johnson, I don’t want no trouble from the likes of you. Now listen to me.’ He looked around at the assembled men, making sure that those down on the quay were listening as well. ‘There’s three days’ work unloading this ship. Three days’ pay. But if you lot want to bugger off, that’s fine by me. There’s plenty more will do the job. I only have to go outside and there’s a queue waiting to take your places. So take your pick – get this lot on to the quay and stacked in the warehouse, or go.’
For a long moment the group hesitated. Then Reggie Wilkins manoeuvred the toe of his truck underneath the nearest barrel, grasped the top and tipped it back with obvious difficulty into the carrying position. A noticeable trickle fell out of the side of the barrel and down his wet trousers.
Others followed. Tom harangued them, pointing out the dire effects of the soda, but they would not listen. They knew Grant was right. There were a hundred others outside willing to earn sixpence an hour if they walked out.
Tom watched them with despair in his heart. He knew the poverty that drove them, knew the cold homes and hungry, unshod children. They had run out of coal for the range three days ago at his house and were living on bread and scrape, with tea from used leaves brewed next door. But they were many and the management were few. If they all united they could win. If they gave in, it would always be like this.
Grant came up to him. A thin smile of triumph stretched his face.
‘You working, Johnson, or going?’
Either way the foreman had won, and they both knew it.
‘I never walked out on anything,�
� Tom told him.
Grant’s smile grew wider. ‘Missus waiting for the pay, is she? Wouldn’t like to go home short, would we?’
Tom kept his temper with difficulty. ‘I’m staying to see over my mates’ interests,’ he said, with dignity. ‘Because nobody else will, that’s for sure.’
‘You stay, and you stay on my terms, Johnson. You were taken on to unload this ship, and unload it you will, without any nancy-boy whining about hurting yourself. Understood?’
If he walked off now, no point of principle would have been made and Grant would have succeeded in getting rid of him. He needed the men behind him to make a stand. If he stayed, there was still a chance they would see that they were being exploited, and then he would be here to speak for them. But to stay meant to bow to Grant’s demands. His mates would see him give in.
‘Understood, Mr Grant.’ He forced the words out.
‘Good. I knew you’d see it my way in the end.’ The foreman’s voice was oily with success. ‘Now get to work!’
Resentment boiling within him, Tom went back to the hatchway. The others avoided his eyes.
‘Sorry, mate,’ one muttered to him, ‘but I need this money and we wouldn’t never have won. Not with all them lot still wanting jobs. I’m a Royal and still I been waiting for work all last week.’
‘We win if we stand together,’ Tom insisted, but nobody answered.
He waved the crane over. He was not defeated yet, he told himself. He might have lost this battle but the war was still on. He was down but he was not out. But however much he bolstered up his hopes, the setback dragged at his spirits. His whole body felt weary. His wet clothes weighed him down, making each movement an effort.
Looking down in the hold, he saw the men rubbing their eyes, tears running down their faces.
‘Don’t!’ he shouted as one ducked his head to wipe his face on his upper sleeve. ‘You’ll make it worse. It’s on your hands and your clothes where you been lifting. It’s burning into you.’
Their sight blurred, the palms of their hands raw, the men worked on. Still the cranes brought ashore more sets of barrels. They piled up on the quayside, threatening heaps of dull rusted steel.
The light was failing fast, but still they carried on working. They were into overtime. Everyone was glad of the extra money, but they were tired. Now was the time when accidents happened through sheer fatigue.
‘All fast!’ came the shout from the hatchway.
Tom signalled to the crane driver. The set went swinging up and over to the quay. Tom straightened up to watch it, then caught his breath. The load was not made up properly. The strop was slipping out from under the end bottom barrel.
‘Look out! Greenacre!’ he yelled, using the time-honoured warning for an accident.
The men reaching up to guide the load down had already realized and jumped back. A cascade of barrels tumbled out of the sky, dropping ten, fifteen feet on to the stones of the quay. There was a crunching sound as they hit the ground and a cloud of white dust blew up into the air, leaving the watching men gasping and coughing.
‘Anyone hurt?’ an anxious voice called up from the hold.
Tom peered through the dust. ‘No, no I don’t think so, thank God. Bloody awful mess, though.’
‘Thank God for that,’ the man echoed, relieved. Tom did not have to ask who it was that had secured the set.
Somebody was going to have to clear the broken load away, and Tom knew who that was going to be – Wilkins’ gang. It ought to be done with shovels and some sort of protective clothing, something to cover their eyes and mouths, but he knew better than to expect that. They were there to unload the ship, whatever the danger to themselves, for the usual sixpence an hour plus tuppence overtime. He looked at them: a sorry bunch, tired and underfed, with red eyes and blistered hands. But they had pride still, and there was a limit to how much they were willing to be pushed around.
Even as the thoughts went through his head, he saw Grant beckon them over.
‘You lot – get these shifted. Any that are broken, put into the waste cart.’
Tom could not stand by and let his mates be exploited.
‘Hold it,’ he called down to the men inside the ship. ‘Grant’s making the truckers clear the broken barrels. They could be damaged for life.’
The gangers shrugged. It happened all the time.
‘Look at what it’s done to you already. Think how it’d be if it really got down inside you,’ he said. ‘Get inside your guts, it would. Eat you away.’
One man nodded, and made his way to the ladder up to the deck. Slowly, the others followed.
Tom waved to the crane driver to stop, then walked deliberately down on to the quay. He stepped through the assembled gang of truckers. Behind him, he could hear the others going quiet, waiting for what was going to happen next.
‘That’s dangerous, Mr Grant. If those barrels are split, the stuff’s going to go all over these men. They need to shift it with shovels, not their bare hands.’
Grant’s face went red with anger. His eyes bulged. The veins in his neck swelled. He jabbed a finger towards Tom.
‘Are you refusing to work, Johnson? Because I warned you . . .’
Tom stood his ground. Grant was blustering because he knew he was in the wrong. He thought he could win just by shouting loud enough. Tom kept his voice reasonable, steady.
‘No, Mr Grant, I’m not refusing to work, and neither are these men. I’m just saying as they can’t lift the stuff with their bare hands.’
‘And I’m saying they bloody will.’ He looked beyond Tom to the group of men, his eyes searching for the weakest to pick on. ‘You – what’s y’name – Wilkins. Take one of them barrels out to the cart.’
Wilkins hesitated. He looked from Grant to Tom.
‘Don’t do it, Reg,’ Tom told him. ‘You get that down you and you’ll never work again.’
But Grant had a stronger threat. ‘You leave that there and you’ll never work in this dock again.’
There was a groundswell of muttering.
‘Don’t do it, Reg.’
‘He’s bluffing, mate.’
‘Don’t let him push you around.’
A surge of relief and triumph shot through Tom. They had had enough. They were with him. Now he could get somewhere. He stood watching Reggie Wilkins’ face, pitying the man. Grant had picked his victim well. Reg was not a fighter. He was a quiet hero, willing to work all day for half-a-crown rather than let his family starve, ready to endure anything just as long as he was earning. Tom said nothing, letting the rest of the gang do the persuading for him, letting Reg see he had his mates behind him.
Grant could see the tide turning against him.
‘Get on with it!’ he shouted. ‘Don’t just stand there gaping like a bleeding idiot, pick the bleeding thing up and take it to the cart.’
Reg Wilkins seemed to shrink. Slowly, avoiding looking at anyone, he trundled his truck over to the heap of bent and damaged barrels. He bent and picked up the nearest one, then tried to straighten up. But the heavy day’s work after weeks of inadequate food had nearly done for him. He could not lift it on to the foot of the truck. Mesmerized, the others look on. It was painful, watching his feeble efforts.
‘Come on, man, put yer back into it,’ Grant shouted.
Wilkins got a fresh grip round the thing. Grunting, he heaved it forward. But his boot, which was coming apart at the toe, caught on a cobblestone. He tripped. Man and barrel fell against the truck and all three crashed down into a broken heap. The barrel split apart and Wilkins landed face first in a heap of caustic soda.
‘Get him up!’ Tom shouted, running forward himself.
‘Water!’ someone shouted. ‘Put water on him.’
The stuff was already damp from the rain. It was sticking to Wilkin’s hair, his face, his clothing. He was shaking, gasping. Tom pulled him clear and laid him on the stones. And then Wilkins began to moan, then scream, writhing on the wet quay. The men l
ooked on, horrified.
‘Get him in the dock,’ someone yelled.
‘No, no, he can’t swim.’
A bucket of water was hauled up and thrown over the injured man, but it did not wash the soda off, only accelerated the reaction. It was eating into his skin.
‘My eyes! My eyes!’ Wilkins cried out in agony, begging them to help him.
‘Keep bringing water. Fetch a cart. We must get him to the hospital,’ Tom ordered.
A handcart was trundled up. Men with only one jacket to their name tore them off for a makeshift mattress. Wilkins was carefully picked up and laid down. He thrashed from side to side in a vain attempt to escape the searing pain. A last dousing with water, and a team of volunteers trundled him towards the dock gates. His screams echoed off the high warehouse walls and hung on the air.
Tom looked round at the crowd that had gathered. Men from quays all along the dockside had come running. Now they stood in shocked silence. They had all seen accidents before, but nothing like this.
An angry growl started and grew. The men who had seen it happen knew who to blame. Grant stepped in to stop it before it got out of hand.
‘All right, all right, the show’s over. Back to work, all of you.’
Nobody shifted.
‘Come on, we ain’t got all day. Get moving.’
Tom waited for the voices to rise. He knew his mates. They were not going to let this one pass. He walked out into the centre of the gathered men and stood by the remains of the shattered barrels. He raised his hands. The shouts died down. There was an expectant pause. He looked round, gathering them all in with him.
‘We’re not going back to work, Mr Grant,’ he stated.
All around him there was roar of agreement.
Grant waved his arms in anger. ‘You lot take no notice of him. This is just to do with this quay. The rest of you get moving – go on, get back to work.’
Still nobody moved.
‘This ship is blacked, Mr Grant. Nothing on this ship will be touched until we get double pay and special clothing to shift this cargo.’
From the back of the crowd came a shout of support.
‘We’re with you, brother. We don’t go back to work neither.’
Trinidad Street Page 10
