‘The mist on the water is so thick out from the basin, I can’t make it out,’ Jerry called back.

‘We could do with the Morry – it’s getting mighty close to the carnival and the fecking cupboards are bare,’ Seamus grumbled.

‘We may as well go back up – there’s too many waiting down here to be taken on,’ said Paddy hopefully. Jerry flicked the stump of his ciggie to the ground, ignoring him, and spoke to Stanley. ‘Aye, Kathleen was complaining just the same. I thought Captain Conor would have been back before now, but Ena hasn’t heard a thing.’

‘What if he doesn’t turn up between now and the carnival, Jer? What will happen?’ asked Seamus who was always at the front with Jerry.

‘I don’t know, Seamus, but we’ve two weeks or so yet, so let’s pray at mass on Sunday that Conor hasn’t forgotten us and sails in next week.’ He turned back to the men from the four streets, gathered behind him. ‘Come on, fellas, let’s get ahead before they move down to the Dock Road end. Looks like there will be work for all of us today.’

The men shuffled down to the front of the pen to be picked off, one by one by the gaffer, who winked at Jerry, acknowledging their conversations of the night before in the Anchor.

‘I’m retiring, Jerry,’ the gaffer had said, ‘and I’ve told Mr Heartfelt it should be you who takes my place. That’s the only way we’ll keep the men of the four streets in work – because I’m telling you, the dock board has plans to knock the streets down and hand them over to Liverpool council for houses, like the ones they are throwing up in Speke. They’re calling it slum clearance, the cheeky bastards.’

Jerry had almost spat out the Guinness he had been drinking. ‘You’re kidding me? Aren’t you?’

The gaffer had shaken his head. ‘The reason they’ve put Frank the Skank down here on our dock is because they’re going to make life hard for us and we have to fight it. The docks are shedding jobs, not taking on.’

‘Can he object to your choice?’

The gaffer, a man from County Mayo, shook his head. ‘Heartfelt knows what’s good for him. But he’s up to something, so we need to keep an eye on him, just in case. You know the tradition is that every gaffer gets to name his own replacement, usually his son, but I only have girls and so I’m naming you.’

Now the gaffer pointed to Jerry, Seamus, Stanley, Callum and Paddy, as the pen gates slid open. ‘Come on, lads,’ said Jerry, ‘we’re on. The chicken is in the pot.’

*