Ken was the instructor for the apprentice bricklayers, and during that first week taught them how to bring up the corners of the brickwork of a house, and how to fill-in between. His gang, as he called them, were quite a bunch of roughnecks. Most of them travelled down from the valleys, arriving at irregular times. If Ken did not actually put trowels in their hands, they soon acted like kids in a playground;  playing cars with empty wheelbarrows up and down the scaffolding ramps, or throwing balls of cement at each other. It was weeks before Ken had got them into shape. I was cutting joists one morning, when I heard Ken's irritation:

"That muck throwing     Cut it out!"

Ken soon learned that having too many lads working together was inviting trouble. But he was unable to stop it completely. It only needed two pairs working in close proximity, and it would start:

"I won't tell you again," said Ken, as someone misjudged their aim and landed a trowel-full all over him.

"Ianto, and you Dai, that's your limit.  Next one is down the orffice, right?"

"You always pick on us.  How about that pair over that side," said Dai.

Yet for all their larking about, the brickwork seemed to spring up.

Some weeks later, we were 'preparing' (knocking joinery together) at the builder's yard of T. F.'s (as we nicknamed the firm). This was very nice for me, as the main entrance was directly opposite the back door of our house. Tidy.

After clocking in, it was such a pleasant sensation to plough through the mounds of shavings to get to our benches. The aroma of so many different timbers was a delight. (It's curious how one can recall particular aromas, even after so many years have passed).

We always kept a north eye out for Mr. Butler, the joinery shop instructor. He was a chubby man with an air of no-nonsense about him. No one ever knew whether he was joking or not, as he could be very serious.  But in fairness, he knew his job and he could teach.

Now Llew, on the other hand, aged about thirty-five, was a born comic. Mr. Butler regarded him as a first class machinist, and a clown. Llew always needed an audience, and was up to all sorts of antics. Usually, Mr. Butler pretended Llew wasn't there     to avoid making him any worse. Mr. Butler ignored our bouts of hysterical laughter, until:

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