Hitchhiking from London, England to Aberdeen, Scotland was easy. But my employment there didn’t turn out as expected. How often do plans match outcomes?
I went to Aberdeen to work on an offshore oil rig in the
North Sea. At my first oil company interview,
I was told the lack of Scots employed in the industry, and the multitude of
Americans hired, had become a political issue.
Better luck next time.
I found an employment agency and worked at a lumber yard for
two weeks. Though I was living at the
cheapest place I could find, a second-floor firetrap of a YMCA hostel populated
mainly by old alcoholic men, I soon realized I would save little on lumberyard wages. Luck came my way when three Irish boys
checked into the hostel and befriended me.
“So, you’re looking for better work then Yankee?”
“I sure am.”
“Why don’t you come with us tonight? We have a meet-up with a man from our town
back in Donegal who’s putting together a work crew for a pipeline. It’ll run from Aberdeen here up the coast
about 48 kilometers to Peterhead. Will
last for a good while. Maybe we can get
you on.”
Darkness found the four of us on a sidewalk in a rundown
neighborhood ringing the doorbell of a tiny house. When the door opened, light from inside the
house fell on my three new friends and outlined the shape of a big man in a tweed
sports coat. I stood behind them.
One boy did the talking.
He introduced himself and dropped the name of an uncle who formerly
worked for the big man and had sent them.
The man acknowledged knowing his uncle and asked after him in a low
voice. The boy went on to introduce his two
mates by name.
“And we’ve met up with a big Yankee who appears able to put
in a fine day’s work. Might you be
needing him as well?”
“Let’s have a look.”
They stepped aside and I took a step forward. I felt odd being sized up physically with little
consideration of anything more. He
looked me over and said nothing.
“Right then, the bus will pick up the four of you tomorrow
morning at (some intersection).
If you’re late you’ve lost the job.
We won’t be waiting for you.“
He took a small notebook and pencil out of his jacket
pocket.
“Let’s have your names again.”
He wrote down their surnames. Never asked me mine.
That’s how two and a half months of hard labor for good pay
in the Scottish countryside began. Next
to a deep trench, Caterpillar tractors with side mounts grabbed wide steel
pipes and joined them to a string of pipe welded together. I was on
the small crew that shoved eight-foot wooden 4x4’s under the pipes where they
joined, building platforms of various heights to hold them steady and level while
spot welders tacked the pipe ends together.
The 4x4’s were scattered next to sections of pipe with a
ditch beside them. The line snaked as far as
we could see across Scottish farm fields and meadows.
They put me on that job of horsing 4x4’s the first day and I
never had another one. Finish welders followed, working under canvas shelters,
welding the pipes completely. Later they
were X-rayed to ensure seamlessness. An
English foreman ran the job. He was the
king. The welders and the Caterpillar
operators were princes. The Irishmen, forty of them maybe, along with
me were the serfs. I was the only
American.
It rained every day.
I had leather shoes that were quickly being destroyed in the mud. They all had rubber Wellingtons. They served tea morning and afternoon. Tired filthy workers stood in the mud balancing
a China cup of tea and a biscuit during a break twice a day. An old Irishman with a kind face took me
aside during afternoon tea on my first day.
“Ask the English foreman’s man for Wellies. They won’t give them to ya till ya do.”
He paused.
“And mind your back.
There’s no safety outfit gonna come to your aid on this job. If you get hurt, they sack you. If they ask you to do something ya thinks too
dangerous tell them ta fook off. They’ll
find someone else. You‘re not in America
anymore lad.”
He was the man on the job first to notice things beyond us
and point them out. A stone fence
snaking up and over a rise. Cows on a
hillside.
And the rainbows. Because it rained so often, with sun off and
on, rainbows were plentiful. Partial rainbows ending in clouds, full sky
rainbows making a perfect arc between two points on the horizon, double
rainbows.
“Look there Yankee.
There’s another one. “
I glanced up.
“Yeah. Nice.”
“Nice? All ya can say is nice? Is that what they teach you in America
then? Rainbows are God’s gift to man Yankee. His assurance of pardon to us wretches. His promise of forgiveness. Gorgeous, beautiful, blessed
forgiveness. Have a bit of humility
Yankee. Acknowledge beauty and grace for
fook’s sake, even if just to humor an old sod like me.”
Fridays were paydays. My first payday on the job the big man who
looked me over that night in Aberdeen came out during afternoon tea in an old
jeep, wearing that same tweed coat, its pockets now bulging with cash. The foreman’s man was with him holding a clipboard
and calling out last names. Men would
walk up to him when their name was called.
“Doogan. Five days.”
The man in the tweed coat multiplied our daily wage in his
head by the days attended and handed each man a wad of cash. Some mumbled thanks. The man in the tweed coat said nothing.
The list was alphabetical.
I was last.
“Yankee. Five days.”
The man in the tweed coat handed me my money. I thought I saw a smile. Could have been my imagination. He walked back toward the jeep, where the
foreman’s man was rummaging around. As I turned to walk away, I heard the foreman’s
man yell out.
“And Wellies for the Yankee as well.”
A pair of rubber Wellington boots tumbled through the air
and landed beside me.
That night on our way back to the hostel the three Irishmen and I stopped at a fish and chips takeout, not much more than a couple of deep fryers and a table on the street, They made a cone out of sheets of newspaper, folded it at the bottom, filled it with deep-fried potato wedges, and put two fried fish filets on top. We shook salt and malt vinegar on all of it and ate it with our hands as we walked. I held the paper cone to my chest under my chin. The smell of the vinegar and the heat from the fish rose up onto my cold face.
“So, whatcha think of your first week Yankee?” asked the
Irishman who did most of the talking.
“It was damned hard, but good. I’m making decent money. Thanks for getting me on.”
“You’re doing well.
We’re going to the pub for a pint. Care
to join us?”
I went, feeling like I belonged.
