round, knocking Isobel into Kemp who lost his balance and fell heavily with Isobel on top of him. Rollison went flat on his stomach. He saw the load sweeping nearer and dropping fast. He drew in his breath and kept still.
The bale crashed.
He felt something strike the back of his leg and heard the crates breaking open; but little debris flew about, for the net kept all but the smaller pieces in. The crash had made the cement ground quiver, made blast enough to take Rollison’s breath away but he straightened up, wincing when he moved his right leg. He saw Isobel beginning to get up, bewilderedly; her dark hair had fallen over her eyes. Kemp had one arm about her and, although he was still on his back, he was looking about.
Rollison twisted round so that he could see his leg. The trouser-leg was torn slightly and there was a small streak of blood but he did not think it was serious; a piece of broken wood lay near him.
He stood up and helped Isobel as a dozen men hurried towards them.
Not far away, a man with a pronounced Irish brogue said loudly:
“Always aslape, I’ve never known a country where the people slape so much!” He spoke insultingly to a big sweaty docker who glowered at him.
“Keep your trap shut, Kelly.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Rollison saw the Irishman stop suddenly then swing round and aim a blow at the docker’s head. On the instant, men began to fight. Two were bowled over by the big Irishman who was landing right and left, others joined him and stood together, breathing defiance.
A little, dark-haired man, better dressed than most of the others and who had been approaching Rollison, roared:
“Stop that fighting!”
No one took the slightest notice.
“Strike me, I’ll see the lot of you in jail if—” roared the little man and plunged into the middle of the fray. He did not use his fists but pushed and shoved and shouted and out of the melee there came some sort of order. Before long, the combatants had separated and were standing away from each other. The Irish were grinning widely and there seemed to be no malice in the others.
The little dark-haired man gave orders and some of the dockers, from both sections, went towards an empty lorry and began to load it with wooden crates. Only a few of the men had restarted work, however, but Rollison paid little attention to that. He answered questions reassuringly for no great harm had been done. He smiled at the dark-haired man and at the English and the Irish working together in what now appeared to be perfect harmony.
A disruptive note was introduced by the lorry driver.
“Now then, don’t knock me lorry apart, Irish!”
“That’s enough, Straker!” snapped the dark-haired man.
“Me name’s Smith,” said the lorry driver, truculently.
Rollison would have paid little attention to the exchange but for his interest in the dark-haired man who had shown himself so capable of handling an ugly situation.
“Your name doesn’t matter a stripe to me,” he growled. “You work for Straker. Don’t start more trouble on this wharf. If you do, I’ll report you right away.”
“All right, all right,” growled the driver. “Can’t yer take a joke?” He lit a cigarette and went slouching off to the front of his lorry.
Two scared-looking women in the green dress of WVS workers came from the mobile canteen.
“Are you really all right?” Rollison asked Isobel.
“I’m scared, that’s all.”
“Accidents will happen,” said Rollison, “we were in luck’s way.”
No one had been seriously hurt, although the fence of a wooden hut, standing near, was down. A few pieces of machinery were strewn about the wharf, small parts from the packing-cases; Rollison was almost disappointed because there were no broken whisky bottles. He waited until Kemp was dusting himself down and a plump little woman came out with two cups of tea, before turning to the dark-haired man.
“Are you in charge?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m the foreman.” The man was abrupt.
“I’d like a word with that crane-driver.”
“So would I!” said the foreman, darkly. “Are you sure that cut doesn’t need attention, Mr Rollison?”
“I’ll see to it later.” Rollison passed no comment on the fact that he had been recognised but went with the foreman towards the crane. It was drooping towards the ground, as if something had broken, and a man was climbing from its smelly interior. Small and pale-faced, he reminded Rollison of Craik but was young enough to be Craik’s son.
“What the hell are you doing? I thought you were a crane-driver, not a—” he went on with unprintables, a flow which showed a nice discrimination and made the driver’s lips quiver. Several other men gathered round. In different circumstances, Rollison would have been sorry for the little man.
At last, the foreman stopped.
“I-I-I’m sorry, sir,” gasped the driver, in a small voice. “I misjudged the distance and tried to swing it back. Then my hand slipped.”
“Slipped? Mine’ll slip where you don’t want it, you bloody lunatic!” roared the foreman. “I’m always telling you to keep your eyes on your job and to stop going to sleep. This’ll be your last ride in a crane,” he added. “I’ll see you
