‘It’s not enough you bastard – we want a fair wage! Thirty shillings for six days work is rubbish – everyone here knows that!’
‘And you know that it’s the going rate – five shillings a day,’ replied Cufflin, speaking loudly enough to be heard by the men at the front of the crowd, whilst desperately trying not to shout. If he lost control of the situation now there would be mayhem, which was the one thing that he could not afford. The thirty or so ditch diggers and navvies, who had gathered to collect their weekly pay, were an unpredictable mixture. Hard Irish labourers working side by side with local men recruited on a short-term basis until the harvest took precedence. A wrong word now and the room would erupt.
As Agent for the Shires Canal Company, it was Arthur Cufflin’s responsibility to ensure that the new twenty-mile ‘canal cut’, linking the brick yards at Market Flixton with the
he atmosphere in the smoky bar room was
charged with tension. Seated behind the deal
paymaster’s table, Arthur Cufflin felt the first
real pangs of anxiety begin to claw at his
intestines. The Irishman was alternately mouthing imprecations at him and bellowing to the gathering of men packed behind him in the tiny room.
charged with tension. Seated behind the deal
paymaster’s table, Arthur Cufflin felt the first
real pangs of anxiety begin to claw at his
intestines. The Irishman was alternately mouthing imprecations at him and bellowing to the gathering of men packed behind him in the tiny room.
