Thursday 10:32 p.m.
The folk upstairs were the granny and grandad, then the last daughter, her man and the two beautiful wee boys. The McCools. In the Fullwood Foundry the ladle full of molten iron spilled at the wrong time and the men went running, and some of them didn't make it. One of them was Etta McCool's man, John Murray. A quiet guy. He used to walk passed me as I sat on our step, and he'd say hullo. He was the young family joe from upstairs. Ninety five percent burns. He only lasted a few days after that.
His eldest son was brought down to sit with us and watch the telly while all the grown ups were going to hospital. He'd never been down to our bit before. I'll never forget the way he sat there without moving and how he stared at the telly for a couple of hours while his family went and waited for John Murray to die. Just sitting there, perfectly parked.
They don't have the pits, or the foundrys, or steelworks in Bellshill anymore.
When I left uni, I got a job in the No2 Mill of the old Stewart and Lloyd's, where they rolled the giant tubes that maybe you would sink into the oil wells. A couple of times I walked through the No1 mill where they make the steel and saw the big vats where the steel was made. I remember thinking what it would be like if the giant vat tipped over and you had to run for your life. You stumble and fall.
Today, as I was walking to the auld maw's, this wummin was crossing paths with me and these two young guys, maybe twenty years old. It's Thursday lunchtime, about quarter to one. Into the mobile phone: Aye, here's Shuggie and Jim. They've got a carry oot. He's got two bottles of Buckfast ... the tale of Buckie and bottles of cider....
I worked in the steelworks for a year after I left uni partly because I wanted to see what it was like to be a joe from Bellshill who had to work there, the three shifts, etc. Hmmm? I should write about that again after I finish the next unpublishable book.
One of these days maybe I'll write something worth reading. Of course, it'll be free.
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4 comments:
Sounds like an Alma Mater sequel. I think I know the ending. What about blogging something from your journals. I will if you will.
Albert? I never look at them. They're probably even more gibberish than this stuff. Of course, never written whilst under the influence! Hotboy
What's the point in not looking at them? Condemned to repeat history. I never look at mine either, but that's because I'm such a busy person.
Albert? Mine are probably practically illegible. This is despite never having written when I've been on the beer, unlike here! Hotboy
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