My son reluctantly acknowledges he needs a summer job. In our quiet corner of Wicklow his options are few – unlike mine were in an industrial English town. “Descaling” work (shovelling sh*te) was plentiful if you were prepared to sweat and didn’t mind filth. I started with cleaning sewers. There were walkways alongside the subterranean streams of effluent – distressing immersions were avoided, but the air lacked fragrance. Hosing the sidewalls offered occasional sport using the high-powered jets to shoot rats out of the air when they leapt across the tunnel. I always got a seat on the bus home.
Then I was taught to drive a dumper truck by a Kerryman called Jack. We drove muck and rubble around a chemical works. One fine morning, the dumper was rattling along and I thought I’d try a stunt. Our two huts stood side by side at the bottom of a hill. A good dumper driver could speed down the track, take a sharp right, an immediate left and stop dead between the two. I cocked it up and drove through the door of the tool shed. The front wall collapsed, the roof sagged and the dumper stalled. I waited in shame. Minutes passed like hours then I heard the skidding tyres of the stunt being expertly executed by someone else. I lifted my head and saw Jack looking at me. He raised an eyebrow and spoke.
“Yerrah why don’t you hit it again? Sure ‘tis no relation.”
We moved the dumper, straightened the wall and hammered the roof back in place. No harm done and not a bitter word said. Then he told me to deliver another load and added that you didn’t qualify as a dumper driver till you’d knocked the shed down – he’d done it twice himself.
The following summer, my minder was a “fitter” called Tommy. I carried his shoulder-socket wrenching bag of iron tools around the plant as he fixed banjaxed machines. Tommy often sent me to the stores, trying all the ruses traditionally employed to tease apprentices – fetch a tin of elbow grease or a left-handed screwdriver or half a dozen sky hooks. He always failed. Once, we were fixing some piping 12 feet above ground. Tommy thought aloud. The ladder would reach but needed securing with two small weights – no, a single long one would do – “Go to t’stores lad and ask for a long weight.”
“Can I have a long weight please?” I asked the storeman. He glanced up. “Aye lad.” He returned to his crossword. I sat down. Others were served promptly. I wondered why I was being ignored. I had clearly asked for a long weight. “Balls,” I said aloud as the penny dropped. “Bye lad,” said the grinning storeman. I trudged back with a heavy heart. Tommy chortled for 20 minutes.
I was at college by then, and was bound for a student production at the Edinburgh Fringe. I was learning lines over lunch and Tommy volunteered to help. I only requested my cues but he insisted on reading the full line. His enthusiasm grew with his performance. The others joined and Tommy cast them as he saw fit. I tried skipping scenes I wasn’t in. They ignored me. Tommy, playing a Parisian laundress, improvised a headscarf from an oil rag and led the cast in heckling me. “You’re not in this much are you lad?”
An attractive, well dressed older woman approached. I flashed her a broad smile and asked if I could show her something. She raised an alarmed eyebrow and hurried past
When I started as a professional actor, I landed a summer job in London’s West End, Selfridges on Oxford Street, selling Teflon iron pads. These were white, plastic yokes that fitted over the baseplate of an iron. After an hour’s training I was supplied with iron and ironing board, along with little squares of corduroy, nylon and velvet. Then I was to demonstrate wonders to crowds of fascinated shoppers. Corduroy would be protected from “shine”, nylon would be prevented from melting and velvet… would be somehow terrific.
Beside the electric Agas, I ironed away – frowning at my shiny corduroy and my delicate nylon. Then my face lit up as I fitted my pad and ironed with delight. This nuanced piece of site-specific theatre would inevitably draw an affluent crowd. Nobody noticed. Perhaps I should talk to people? An attractive, well-dressed older woman approached. I flashed her a broad smile and asked if I could show her something. She raised an alarmed eyebrow and hurried past.
Meanwhile, my supervisor had been lurking behind a fridge freezer. He said, wave an iron pad and ask people if they knew what it was made of? They’ll say “Plastic?” I would astonish them with “No! It’s Teflon,” then launch into the demonstration. He hid behind the kettles and I tried it. Someone answered me. And watched. Someone else joined them. Then three more. I ironed with aplomb and sold two. The supervisor nodded and disappeared. I was up and running.
That was my high point. My spot became a no man’s land. Customers sensed my desperation and took detours through the toasters to avoid me. I ranged further, but word had spread. People made gymnastic contortions to evade me. I saw body swerves that would have raised a cheer at Twickenham. One day, I whirled around, lunged my pad at a formidable woman and blurted “Madam! I wonder if you can guess what this is made of?” She stopped, like a galleon dropping anchor and glared at me through glinting spectacles. I froze like a mountaineer considering the peak he might die on. She wrinkled her nose and grandly announced “I have neither the slightest idea nor the faintest interest. My mind is bent on purchasing a cake tin!” She sung ‘cake tin’ like a lumberjack hollers “Timber.” Maybe she was the resident contralto at the London Colosseum. Everyone turned to look as she cruised onward, leaving me to sink in her wake.
‘Look at this!’ I saw an irate finger jabbing downward at a drawing pin, half emerged, from a half-eaten burger. ‘Oh, another one!’ I said brightly
Another summer, Terry, or Tel, from the video shop, told me about his restaurant in Crystal Palace.
“A lahvely place mate, fresh burgers, good steaks, bottle o’ vino – you know, bit o’ clahss. I’ll give you a job there, if you like.”
The decor was low-rent Miami Vice. The steaks were okay, the tips were poor, but Tel was generous with the lager. However, he hated the chef and one day fired him. When I turned up, Tel was darting about like a nervous chicken. He beckoned me over. “You’ll never guess what happened – one of the customers found a drawing pin in his burger! That sabotaging bastard must have added the drawing pin to the mix as a parting shot!”
Later that evening a corner table erupted. “Waiter!?” I materialised. “Yes sir?” “Look at this!” I saw an irate finger jabbing downward at a drawing pin, half emerged, from a half-eaten burger. “Oh, another one!” I said brightly. I promised a fresh lager and a fresh burger – no charge, no drawing pin – and whisked the plate away. Tel nodded and poured me an ice-cold beer.
If my son is paid in similar coin, he’ll be happy enough.
Philip Judge’s book In Sight of Yellow Mountain is published by Gill
