Chapter 23

Terry had rung home on the Monday evening after he and Grace had returned from Norfolk and told his mother that they were now engaged and that Grace’s parents were delighted. He added that he had fallen for them and that they looked forward to meeting his family.

Jean chuckled at the engagement. “Pretty obvious it was imminent,” she said. You must both come over to Sunday lunch, not this weekend as we’re going to see Dad’s parents, but the following one.”

“Great, Mum! We’ll both look forward to that. Um, Mum, Grace has forbidden me to buy an engagement ring for her because of my uni expenses...”

“Typical! Good girl!”

“Have you still got Granny’s and would you let me give it to her?”

“Happily but it’s a bit old fashioned.”

“I don’t think that will matter one bit. I’ve always thought it beautiful and I’m sure Grace will.”

“OK.”

“Could I give it to her when we come to lunch and then you can join in the fun as well?”

“That’s a lovely idea.”

“Thanks, Mum, very, very much.”

“Not at all. Much better than just sitting in its box in a drawer. I may have to steal a bit of your Dad’s precious gin to clean it.”

Terry chuckled. “It’s only you that drinks it, Mum darling.”

That met with a snort and they rang off.

In the meanwhile Davies’s had finished the Conningsby Road job and Tom Griffiths and his gang, including Gareth, had moved to a new building on the Brookvale Industrial Estate. This for Gareth was much harder work. He had to keep the bricklayers supplied. Bulk was broken but individual teams had to be kept working. It was backbreaking, thirst-making and exhausting. Despite being well-built and strong, it was too much for Gareth to keep going and he would take unofficial rest breaks. Tom Griffiths, the foreman, was initially silently sympathetic but after three days he decided Gareth needed bucking up. He found him sitting on a stack of bricks with his head in his hands.

“Come on, Gareth,” he said gently, “I know it’s hard work but you’ve had three days to get used to it and you’ve got to help the other lads keep the brickies supplied.”

Gareth slowly got to his feet and shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry, Tom, he said.

Tom patted him on the shoulder. “Good lad!” he said. “You’ll break through the pain barrier very soon.”

“Hmm,” was all Gareth could manage. He started to load bricks into a wheelbarrow.

Tom moved away but kept an eye on him.

Gareth filled his barrow and slowly moved off towards his allotted brickies where he duly unloaded his bricks and then returned to reload.

Tom approached him again. “Gareth lad, you’re trying to carry too many at once. If your load is higher than the edge of the barrow some may fall off and get chipped. The other thing is that you’ll find five lighter loads are easier than four really heavy ones. You’ll be able to move quicker and so the brickies will still have enough to work with but you won’t shatter yourself.”

Gareth nodded silently and did as he was told. Tom was right. He did find it easier.

All the same it was a menial, thoughtless although important task which should be done by someone who was not a degree student. It didn’t require any brain at all and was no way to learn how to manage a construction firm. At least with the window fitters and the painters he had learnt something but lugging bricks was just brute force and ignorance. He started to get careless, loading his barrow too quickly and roughly. It was not long before the brickies, having merely received shrugged shoulders from Gareth, complained to Tom about cracked or chipped bricks.

“Gareth,” he said sternly, “you’re being careless, narking the brickies and costing the firm money.”

Gareth just looked at him.

“Chipped and cracked bricks because you’re loading and unloading your barrow carelessly.”

“So? They can still use them at corners or window spaces.”

“No, Gareth. The lengths of walls and window spaces are designed for half bricks and those lads can cut ‘em precisely.”

“So? A few discarded bricks aren’t going to break the bank.”

“It’s a hell of a lot more than a few. How many half bricks are there in a two hundred and fifty yard wall with forty windows in it?”

“Quite a lot.”

“Three hundred and fifty quid a thousand whole brick plus VAT at twenty per cent.”

“Shit!”

“So with your carelessness you’re losing your father’s firm a load of money.”

Gareth nodded.

“Um, Tom, do you think you could move me to something that needs a bit more brain. At least on the last job I learnt something about fitting windows and about painting.”

“No, Gareth. You’re here to learn the job, the interesting things and the straight forward hard labour and that is what you’re here as. Your father was quite clear. You’re here as a labourer, no more. I’ve been patient with you but now I’m telling you to do as you’re bloody well told.”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I do? You’re just a foreman. I’m the boss’s son and will one day take over from him.”

Tom had had enough. No labourer gave him lip and the boss had been quite clear: ‘You do not treat him as my son. You treat him as a labourer.’

He did. He punched him ... hard on the side of the jaw. Gareth went down as if poleaxed. Tom turned to where a couple of the bricklayers were at work and had watched with wide grins. They had a bucket of water which contained a fair amount of cement. He poured it over Gareth.

“Get up,” he ordered.

Gareth clambered to his feet and stood there groggily.

“And now get off home and be back here at eight tomorrow morning prepared to do as you’re bloody well told.”