raised his fist, ready to smash it into the foreman’s face, but then felt a staying hand on his arm. Pete Culling had turned up, the almost bald bricklayer urging, ‘Leave it, Ron. He ain’t worth it. Come on, let’s go.’
His head snapped around. ‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘I’ll tell you later. Now, are you coming?’
‘Not until I’ve flattened this little weasel,’ Ron spat, but found as he turned his attention to the foreman that the man had already moved several feet away.
Pete laughed, flashing his perfectly white teeth, but even these didn’t save his acne-scarred face. He looked like a boxer, one whose nose had been flattened from too many punches as he said, ‘Look at him. He’s shit scared and ready to do a runner. Don’t waste your energy, mate, and anyway, sod this job. I’ve got something better lined up: a nice little earner.’
Ron felt his anger draining away, but scowled at the foreman, unwilling to leave without a parting shot. ‘I ain’t finished with you yet, so watch your back. As for this job, you can stick it where the sun don’t shine.’
The two men walked off the site, laughing, until Ron said to Pete, ‘So, what’s this nice little earner?’
‘I heard about a bloke looking for teams and willing to pay top money. I went to meet up with him before I came on site this morning. He wants us now so we’ll be stepping straight into another job.’
‘So that’s why you were late.’
‘Yeah, but I didn’t expect to hear you getting your marching orders when I showed up.’
‘You didn’t have to leave. It was me who got the sack, not you,’ Ron protested.
‘Leave it out, mate—we’re a team. Anyway, with the money we’ll be earning, I was going to tell him to stick the job anyway. Let’s go to the café and I’ll fill you in. Not only that, I’m starving and could do with a decent breakfast.’
‘All right, but no breakfast for me. Mind you, I won’t say no to a cup of char.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re skint again.’
‘Of course I ain’t,’ Ron lied, ‘it’s just that Lily made me a few sarnies for lunch and I ate them while waiting for you to turn up.’
‘Don’t give me that. I wasn’t that late.’
Ron knew he hadn’t fooled Pete. They knew each other too well and had worked together since getting demobbed. It hadn’t been easy at first, coming back from the war to find half of London flattened and jobs scarce. Things had gradually improved and when at last rebuilding got underway there was a demand for bricklaying teams. Nowadays they were never out of work and it looked like Pete had come up trumps again. He grinned ruefully, ‘All right, I’m skint.’
‘What was it? The dogs again?’
‘Yeah, but I was doing all right. I picked a couple of winners, and then got the whisper of a sure thing. I stuck the lot on Ascot Boy and he was leading the pack, but then swung wide, fell, and took another couple of dogs with him. Paul’s Fun got through the gap to win by three-quarters of a length.’
‘So you blew your wages again?’
‘I had a few bob left, but after drowning me sorrows in the Queen’s Head, I reckon Lily must have cleaned out me pockets when I rolled home.’
‘Serves you right, Ron. I’ve said it before, gambling’s a mug’s game. I don’t know what’s the matter with you. You’re good looking with a gorgeous wife and kid, yet despite Lily’s threats to leave you you’d rather spend your time down the dogs or in the pub.’
‘Look, I’ve had nothing but ear bashings from Lily all weekend and don’t need another one from you. I know I’ve got to knock the gambling on the head, and I will.’
‘If you really mean it this time, I’ve got the answer,’ Pete said as they walked into the café and up to the counter.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Watcha, Alfie. Two cups of tea please, followed by an egg and sausage with fried bread. Twice please,’ Pete said, leaving Ron’s question unanswered.
‘Just a tea for me.’
‘Ignore him, Alfie,’ Pete said, and then, taking the mugs of tea, he walked over to a vacant table.
‘What did you do that for? I told you I didn’t want anything to eat,’ Ron said as he sat down opposite.
‘It’s my treat, and, anyway, after hearing what I’ve got to say you’ll need a full stomach when you tell Lily.’
‘Tell her what?’
Pete took a gulp of tea, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and then said, ‘The new job’s out of London.’
‘Oh, yeah. How far?’
‘About thirty miles.’
‘What! Leave it out, Pete. That’s too far to travel.’
‘Before you start doing your nut, hear me out. You’ve heard of these new town developments? Well, Bracknell in Berkshire is one of them. They’re building houses for thousands of people, but they’ve got a shortage of tradesmen and it’s behind schedule. That’s where we come in. The bloke I met is looking for crews, and the money is top whack. If we put the hours in, it works out at almost twice what we’ve been earning.’
Ron pursed his lips. ‘It sounds good, but there’s still the problem of getting there. We’d have to be up at the crack of dawn and Gawd knows what time we’d get home.’
‘There’s accommodation on offer. It’s only basic, but to earn that sort of money I’m willing to rough it.’
‘I dunno, mate,’ Ron said doubtfully.
‘It’s the chance we’ve been waiting for. We’ve always talked about starting up our own firm and if you’re willing to give up gambling, we could pool our money, save enough to start up.’
‘You’d take that risk on me?’
‘We’re mates, and, after what you did for me, I’d be willing to take the risk.’
Ron’s head went down. During a beach landing in France he’d seen Pete pinned down by gunfire, too frightened to move. He’d run back, grabbed Pete, hauled him forward, but had taken a bullet in his leg. It had only been a skimmer, a bit of a flesh wound and, anyway, it was no more than Pete would have done for him. Now his mate was willing to risk a partnership—but could he do it? Ron agonised. Could he give up gambling? ‘I dunno, Pete. What if I let you down?’
‘You won’t. There isn’t a dog track in Bracknell, and I reckon we’ll be away long enough to get gambling out of your system. It’s time to take stock, Ron. If you don’t pull your socks up you’ll end up with nothing. Think about the future. We ain’t getting any younger, and if we don’t do this now, we never will.’
Two plates were put in front of them, and Ron’s mouth salivated as the smell of sausages and egg wafted up. Meat was still rationed, with only 4oz of bacon allowed a week, but there was more food available now. It was nice to have a real egg instead of that powdered muck they’d been forced to eat during the war, but as Ron picked up his knife and fork to cut into the sausage, he felt a surge of shame. Rationing or not, with most of his money going down the dogs, there wasn’t much food on offer at home. He should be providing for his wife and child, but the pull of the race track always won; the thrill of watching the dogs, of picking a big winner. Some weeks he won a few bob, but then like an idiot he’d put it on another dog, only to lose it again. Pete was right. Lily was right. It was a mug’s game, and he knew it.
Pete spoke and Ron was broken out of his reveries. ‘Well, Ron, what do you think?’
Determined