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door.
    •••
    He took the remaining cheese piece out of the greaseproof wrapping paper and ate it slowly. There were no conversations in progress. The men were eating or smoking, reading the
morning newspapers or staring at the floor or the wall or the ceiling. Sitting next to Tammas the man turned the pages of the
Daily Record
and kept them open at the racing section. Tammas
gazed at it and eventually the man moved the paper a little nearer for him.
    Anybody for a game of solo? called the teaboy. He was sitting at the table with the cards spread out in a game of clock patience. When nobody answered him he called: Trump?
    A man sitting near him said, Sssh.
    Tammas finished the sandwich. He screwed the wrapping paper into a ball, chipped it in the air, to land in the big cardboard box where the litter was dumped. He looked back at the newspaper. The
man was indicating one of the day’s runners and saying, I’m sick of punting this fucking bastard here – owes me a fortune so it does.
    Ah it’s a bad yin.
    You’re no kidding. I saw it on the telly a couple of weeks ago. Looked like it was going to win a distance then everyfuckingthing came and passed it.
    Tammas nodded.
    Should’ve won out of the fucking park so it should – terrible!
    I saw it as well: said another guy. But I had a wee hunch the jockey dropped the reins.
    Ah they all drop the fucking reins! said somebody from the bench opposite.
    Here we go! muttered the man next to Tammas. And he pointed to another runner. Darktown Lad, he said, What I want to know is how come they’re fucking running it in a handicap the day when
they stuck it into a fucking seller last week!
    Aye, said Tammas, maybe a move on.
    Exactly. He shook his head: Best to leave the race alone altogether.
    The man from the bench opposite cried: Wish to fuck you’d leave them all alone ya cunt – save you tapping me every time you go skint!
    Fuck off.
    Fuck off yourself!
    The man closed the newspaper and brought out a cigarette packet and he lighted one and returned the packet into his pocket, then he opened the newspaper again.
    One of the others yawned and stood to his feet, glanced at his watch and said: I suppose I suppose. Time to do a bit.
    Somebody laughed: Listen to him! He’s been out getting a suntan on the fucking canal bank all morning!
    I’ll tell you something, if you want to go out there picking up bits of fucking plastic then you’re welcome; I’ll fucking swop you any day of the week. Fucking boring man!
I’m bored out my head!
    Ah, cushy number.
    Cushy number! The man shook his head; he turned to the bench and lifted his newspaper and tobacco tin, and then walked out the smoke-area. Gradually the others began to leave.
    Tammas said quietly to the man sitting next to him: You got a fag you could lend us?
    The man nodded, he brought out the packet and handed it to him.
    After dinner Ralphie and Tammas reported to the front yard where a lorry had arrived. The driver climbed down from the cabin and began unloosening the ropes; it was a load of
56lb bags of cement. After a minute Tammas walked forwards; he made to untie one of the knots but the driver told him not to bother. It was me that tied it, he said. I know how to get it done
quick.
    When he had finished he climbed up onto the rear and manoeuvered the first to the edge. Ralphie glanced round and shook his head. I might’ve fucking known! he muttered, We’re on our
fucking tod as usual!
    He bent to dunt the ashes out of his pipebowl, stuck it into the top pocket of his dungarees. Okay, he said to Tammas, we better just start.
    Aye, replied the driver, it’s appreciated – I’ve got another delivery later.
    They worked in silence, the driver dropping then dragging the bags to the edge of the wagon where the two would pull them onto their shoulders and walk a few strides before swinging them down
onto the ground next to the wall. More than twenty minutes went by. Then assistance arrived; two men, one of