The Present - James
I knock on the door: Foreman’s Office.
A grunt; “Door’s open.”
As I enter, Sam Callaghan stands at a table, resting on both palms as he stoops over site schematics spread flat, pinned at the corners with ashtrays, a spanner and a wilting pot plant. “Got five minutes?”
“Course I have, James.” He jerks his chin to a stack of mugs. “Coffee?”
“Thanks, yes.”
Hands grey with ground-in dirt tip instant coffee into mugs. “What can I do for you?” His voice is a growl brought on by years of shouting outdoor instructions up gantries and scaffolding, and across acres. He pours from the kettle and passes me the cup. I eye the chipped and stained enamel for signs of life…
Thank God for boiling water…
… then tip back a scalding mouthful.
“Sam, that youngster I asked you to t
