The Hard Hat

Millie McRoberts

As he hurried along the cold dark street he shivered; he felt fleeting comfort from the cigarette he drew on as he held it to his mouth. He silently cursed himself; of all the days to 'sleep in' it would have to be a day like today; it was freezing "minus four degrees" he heard the weather forecasters announce. And it was Tuesday, a working late night, a twelve hour shift ahead. He had no option, he had to work late he needed the money; it was four weeks to Christmas and he had promised to buy his sons a continental electric train-set. He had literally jumped into his clothes the minute he awoke and realised how late it was; no time for breakfast not even a cup of tea; he shivered again as he reached the main gate along with a few other stragglers arriving just before the horn blew. He lifted his card and stamped the time 7.25am. Pushing through the gate he made his way out of the gatehouse onto the cobble-stone dockyard and toward the engine shop. As he hurried along he passed a squad of yard workers loading a bogie in preparation to start its endless journeys, running to and from the ship in the dock. Turning a corner, he almost collided with one of the yard hard-hats on his way to oversee the loading of the bogie.

The roofs and brick walls of the buildings were coated with frost and the few bushes and grasses that survived to grow here and there in the yard were encrusted with glittering frost. The ground frost had disappeared and was now a mosaic of hundreds of footprints leading to the engine shop entrance. As he reached the door and entered, the horn blew exactly on 7.30am.

Taking its cue, the great ship-yard orchestra started up its symphony in response to the sudden explosion of workers buzzing around in a hive of industry: steel plates suspended from an overhead crane clang together like giant cymbals as they descend into the cradle of the massive structure in the dock; a multitude of hammers beat time with the clouds of mist that drift back and forth, rising and falling with the gentle lapping of the blackened Clyde waters. The deafening rattle of the aulking machines join the chorus as they pound with perfect pitch, whilst the welders add spectacular sparkle: the loaded bogies sound the roll of distant drums as they run along the tracks between the worn cobble stones.

In the machine shop, the giant sliding doors on the dock side have been opened and the frozen air blasts its way in with the music of the yard which is lost as it mingles with the high pitched screeching sounds from the carbon tipped cutting tools that reduce, layer by layer, the massive steel work pieces to precise dimensions.

In here he labours with his fellow workers, his mates, skilled journeymen who are almost robot like as they work to the clock, operating their machines. The stone floor yields no comfort to the feet; the smooth shiny steel is colder than ice, everything is unbearably cold to touch. He glanced up in despair at the heaters twelve feet high above; his clouded breath streaming out in testament to the ineffectiveness of the antiquated heating system, as are the icicles that hang from the underside of the heaters. But never mind, it's now 8am, and on a day like today the men would steak an early cup of tea; tea breaks were not recognised but there was an unofficial tea break at 8.50am with the proviso that there were no hard-hats in the vicinity.

'The hard-hats' were the managers who were so called because there was a steel plate in the crown of the black bowler hats that they wore at all times whilst on the machine shop floor or in the yard, for their protection against accidents.

There was a padlocked urn that sat on a bench off the main passage. An assistant to the journeymen, or the helper as he was known, filled the urn first thing in the morning and switched in on to be ready for 8.50am.

Through the shroud of mist and smoke the Blacksmith's fire can be seen in the far corner of the workshop. Two men at a time slip over to the faucet, fill their tea can with water and place it on the metal grid that spans the open flames. Soon the water will boil and the most welcoming hot liquid will comfort the hands and warm the hearts of all who labour here.

Out of the freezing misty air the most hated of all the hard-hats suddenly appears on the shop floor. Some hard-hats are well liked and respected, but not this one; he is cruel and cunning and knows exactly when and how to prevent the rules being broken. He ambles down the central passageway with his gloved hands clasped behind his back. The outer edges of the sleeves and shoulders of his Crombie coat sparkle as the freezing air settles on the hairy surface. His head turns neither to the left for right as he walks, but his close-set beady eyes dart into every corner seeing everything as he goes. He continues on towards the brightly burning fire with its regimented rows of cans sitting squarely on top.

He pretends not to see the illicit cans; the men pretend not to see him as they continue to work uninterrupted by his presence.

The hard-hat stands with his back to the fire and the bubbling cans. The frozen crystals on his coat become water droplets, dissolve and disappear. He continues to stand there until the cans boil dry and then he walks away.