Lawley nodded. “Reilley and Flanagan. Reilley wasn’t a bad chap: he was a worker, he was. Flanagan was born lazy and I reckon he was a liar, too. Reilley was bothering about his wife and family in Ireland: you remember I came to you about him. He hadn’t worked his full month and his agreement said his full wages weren’t due until he’d served his month. I asked if you’d forego that clause and pay him so that he’d enough money for his fare to Belfast.”
“I remember,” said Wharton. “You wanted to be quit of him because he and Flanagan were always fighting.”
“That was it, and the other chaps were taking sides—bad for discipline. I couldn’t have it. Since it was Reilley who wanted to go, I said he’d better go. And I got Turner to drive him to Heysham and see him on his boat. He went— back to Ireland. Flanagan stayed his month and then left, and I was glad to be quit of him, even though we were short-handed at the time. It was the end of February, you remember. Well, before he left, Flanagan came to me and said I’d always been unfair to him, had a down on him, because he couldn’t stand Reilley. Reilley was a real bad ’un. I shut him up. I knew in my bones that if one of those two men was a bad ’un, it was Flanagan. And then a week later, Taffy Jones came and told me that Flanagan had said that Reilley was that convict who escaped from Dartmoor in January.”
“Good lord!” exclaimed Wharton. “You never reported it, Bob.”
“I didn’t believe it,” retorted Lawley. “It was just the sort of lie Flanagan would tell. Taffy Jones didn’t believe it either, but he said he was quite willing to believe that Flanagan was the escaped convict. Well, there it was. Reilley had gone, Flanagan had gone, and where they’d gone was none of my business. What was the use of making a song about it? There wasn’t any evidence, just a lot of say so. I got talking to some of the chaps about it: nobody knew anything, just what Flanagan whispered around before he left, and the ones who’d heard the whispers told me straight that if they knew for a fact one of those Irishmen was an escaped convict, they wouldn’t have given him away: far from it, they’d have helped him to get clear. That’s how they feel about it.”
“It’s awkward,” said Wharton. “If the police do come here, I’m pretty well bound to tell them that story.”
“I don’t see any sense in telling them,” said Lawley. “What does it boil down to? We took on a scratch lot of men because some of our chaps were laid up. When that happens, you have to take on any able-bodied man who’s willing to come. You get a set of scallywags, the dregs of the labour market, and make the best of it. The regular gangers know all the difficulties and they keep order of a sort themselves: see to it there’s no pilfering of other men’s property, such as it is. Well, the men we took on weren’t a bad lot—the two Irishmen were the trouble makers because they quarrelled. Reilley was from Northern Ireland, Flanagan from the south. When I saw they were making trouble, I let Reilley go.”
“You say we’ve still got six chaps here of the dozen you took on early in February: let’s get them listed. Of the whole lot, those six are the ones we know least about. We can answer for the old hands to some extent, and the lot who came on from Pembridge—well, they know each other to some extent.”
“Yes, I see what you mean, boss: the February lot were rag, tag and bobtail, came from goodness knows where. All we cared about was that they were able-bodied, used to navvying and capable of putting their backs into a job. The six who’re still here—wait a jiff, I’ll list them for you. There’s Taffy Jones, a good worker but a damned quarrelsome Welshman. Fred Hodges, he’s a cockney and he’s worked his way up north putting in time on road works. Tom Martin came here when the road job at Cowholme was finished, Martin’s the pick of that bunch. Then there were three blokes, Blunt, Scott and Welby, who’d been doing demolition work in Birmingham—clearing slum property. They’re about browned off with this job. It isn’t the work, they’re all tough. It isn’t the eats or living conditions, they’re comfortable and they know it, but they’re bored stiff. They like streets and flicks and skirts, a fish-and-chips at the comer and the chance of going to bed drunk any night they like.”
“In common with working blokes in general,” said Wharton. “Thanks a lot, Bob. You’re a wonder the way you get to know these chaps and their background.”
“You’ve got to treat ’em as human beings, listen to their grouses, and find out where they came from,” said Lawley. “It’s like the army over again, in a manner of speaking. A pack of toughs who’re cut off from their homes and their wives. If you can get ’em talking in the evening, it helps. In the army it was regulations and discipline kept them at it: here it’s the knowledge they’ll have a good pay packet at the end of the contract, over and above what’s sent to their wives and deducted for their keep.”
Wharton nodded and Lawley got up. “See here, boss; I’ll go and get cracking with some of the chaps and see if I can find out a bit more about Reilley and Flanagan. And if so be the flics come up here this evening, don’t go spilling that damn’ silly story of Flanagan’s about Reilley being the escaped convict. It’ll only go putting ideas into policemen’s heads, and I reckon I can kill it stone dead, so that you needn’t repeat it
