During the Thirsty Years; when the Deptford Croppy really thought he was Charles Bukowski, Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S Thompson all rolled into one, he worked as a roofer in London.
From being a highly improbable sex-symbol for a captive audience (while slating a women’s prison wing), to putting a finish on the roof of the HSBC tower one fateful morning in September 2001; the roofing game has not been without its memorable moments.
On any given morning, I could be sent to landscape an investment bank’s roof, watching the dawn spread between the dome of St Paul’s and the Old Bailey’s blind justice or just as easily, I could be dressing lead or Westmoreland slate up on the spire of the Liberal Club in Whitehall, listening to river barges in the fog below.
But of course, it wasn’t just the work which was satisfying (very well paid and all), the company was never dull. Working at close quarters in a dangerous environment is where you really find out who your friends are and we were tight. It's fair to say, if you were looking for ‘a rum bunch’, me and my Deptford muckers would have passed that audition, flying colours.
But every now and then, you could find yourself on a job that might run for a fortnight, just you and one, maybe two other geezers. That kind of job could go either way. Without the whole mob around, you might find that you just don’t get on one on one, that’s tough; the days just stretch out. On the other hand, you might actually just hit it off.
I was once sent to a job for a week with one of our roof-coaters so I could pick up the knack off him. (Let’s call him ‘Eddie Reilly’ but don't be fooled by the name, you'd have to go back to the Bermondsey dock strike to find his Irish roots) At first, I wasn’t keen. Before roofing, Eddie had been a blagger (armed robber) and before that, he’d served with the Paras in Norn Iron (three tours apparently).
These also appear to have been the main influences on his man-management techniques; one of the younger apprentices had apparently been reduced to tears by a Reilly barracking the previous week.
But if I picked up the roof-coating, I’d be on a better daily rate and even able to bid for price work so I sucked it up and arrived in Belgravia bright and early the following sunny Monday morning.
Even before arriving on site, I’d started the charm offensive which I hoped would make the job run smoother; I found a greasy spoon near the job and picked up two teas, two sugars. It worked surprisingly well. Maybe it was a combination of sunshine and free tea but Eddie, with a face like a London road map, was actually smiling.
He was a good coater and taught well, so I picked it up easily. The week passed swiftly and industriously. By Friday breakfast, it was looking like ‘job-anock’ for lunchtime (job done, finish early for a full day’s pay). As we finished the snagging and stowed our gear for pick-up, Eddie produced a naggin of brandy and looking out over Belgravia, we toasted our roof’s long and leak-free life.
 |
| Devlin McAliskey: Westminster's youngest woman MP |
“You know about the Troubles, you might have heard about this one,” Reilly said to me before another sip of brandy. This was his cue to recount his part in the events of a January morning back in 1981.
Eddie maintained that he had been part of a team manning a covert observation post close to the house of Bernadette McAliskey in Coalisland County Tyrone. What he then told me about this infamous UFF assassination attempt was depressingly unsurprising.
In reference to the UFF hit-squad, Eddie simply had this to say: “We were told to let them in and to let them back out again. So we did and then we had a patrol pick up the shooters on the way out of the operational area.”
As he said this, Eddie squinted out over the ornate chimney pots, looking somehow unburdened. The sun was at its highest and empty-bellied brandy was working its magic. Eddie Reilly turned his sunburned face to me and cracked into a happy drunken grin: “You know what mate? I’ll fuckin’ never understand you Irish!”
Comments
Post a Comment