Underneath The Arches

There’s a railway bridge on the Cally where trains thunder overhead while others  earn a crust under em.

Just a couple of little workshops.

Most people walk under it now without a second thought .Brick. Steel. Traffic. Phones.

But once, underneath those arches, there was a welding shop.

And for a short while, I worked there. A pound an hour. Forty quid a week if you did the full stretch. Cash in hand.

At the time I thought I was being robbed blind. But all my mates were on the YTS scheme, pulling in less than twenty-five quid a week and a pat on the head from Thatcher’s evil government .

So I suppose I was doing alright.

The boss was a bloke called Bobby Blessdale.

Absolute nutcase.

I’m Not exaggerating either. Bobby had done time for murder back in the sixties, something he would constantly shout about.  That little detail would usually come out halfway through one of his rants about how he’d kill me if I messed up another weld.

He threatened me more than once.

That stopped fairly quickly when he found out who my dad was. Didn’t stop him smashing a phone to bits with a club hammer though, while I was still on it, talking to my girlfriend.

Then he made me pay for it.

That was Bobby.

He had this habit of wolf-whistling at women as they walked past the workshop.

Didn’t matter who. Didn’t matter when. Just part of his daily routine.

So one day, being young and wanting to be one of the lads, I thought I’d join in.

Big mistake.

“Hello luv… corrr… love the short skirt.”

Felt quite pleased with myself for about three seconds.

Until she stopped.

Turned around.

And absolutely tore me to pieces.

Turns out she was a barrister.

And she was NOT impressed.

Called me a stupid little boy and told me to apologise properly.

Which I did.

Immediately.

And just to make it worse, Bobby stood there shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Said he’d never do such a thing. No idea what had come over me.

“Get in the van and wait for me “ he said in front of her, “Your in big trouble , you stupid little boy”  He gave me a mocking wink and walked away.

Left me there looking like a complete mug.

I never, ever did it again.

We made all sorts in that place. Balconies. Spiral staircases. Railings. Gates. Bits of London that are probably still standing now while someone leans on them with a takeaway coffee.

And one of them was that sign at St Pancras Station.

I did the first tack welds on it. Painted it too.1984.

I remember standing there looking at it thinking, that’ll be there forever, that will.

What I didn’t expect was how many City gents couldn’t read a simple WET PAINT sign.

Full suits. Briefcases. Important faces.

Walking by and touching the wet balustrade as if to see if it was true

Walking off with red paint on em and moaning about me like it my fault.

All rush  rush. No clue.

I used to stand there watching, trying not to laugh.

Proper old school work. Sparks flying. Grinders screaming. Steel ringing out on concrete.

That was the soundtrack. Well that and a bit of The Smiths or New Order on me Walkman.

It was only my second proper job, but I took it seriously.

I had to. It was my only money. No work, no food.

By then life had already taught me one thing, if someone’s paying you for an honest day’s work, you turn up and you do it properly.

Around that time my baby daughter had just been born. Six weeks old, if that.

One day we were putting together a spiral staircase. The steps slide over a central pole, stacking up like a twisted pile of pancakes, each one locking into the next.

Normally solid as anything.

But something went wrong.

A tread slipped.

Just dropped.

A freak thing. Shouldn’t happen. But it did.

The edge caught my hand and broke my thumb.

Fucking hell …I went mad , screaming and kicking paint pots while the other blokes laughed and held their thumbs pretending to cry .

These days there’d be forms. Supervisors. Health and safety. Someone telling you to sit down and have a cup of tea.

Back then?

You wrapped it up and carried on.

So I did.

When the day finished, I walked home like I always did. Thumb throbbing. Bag of shopping under one arm.

My daughter in the other.

Carried her the whole way.

At the time it didn’t feel like anything special. Just life. Just what you did.

Looking back now, I sometimes wonder if that attitude is why my body’s in the state it’s in.

Years of lifting what you shouldn’t. Working through what you should rest. Dragging weight in all weathers.

It adds up.

Still… I wouldn’t change much.

Because those arches had more than one life under them.

Next door there was an old brass polisher. Scruffy old bastard. Looked like he used his beard as emery cloth.

Inside, we were building things.

But just up the road?

Benches. Squats. Special Brew. Super-strength cider.

Blokes drifting through the city with nowhere to go and no reason to stop.

London’s always been like that.

You could be welding steel under a railway bridge in the day…and sitting on a park bench round the corner that same night, talking shit with people the rest of the world pretends not to see.

The arches didn’t care.

They just stood there while trains rolled overhead and lives passed underneath.

Years later I heard an old song—Underneath the Arches.1930s. Flanagan and Allen. Music hall stuff.

Two blokes sleeping rough under railway bridges.

There’s a line in it:

The Ritz we never signed for, Savoys they can keep…There’s only one place that we know, and that is where we sleep.

When I first heard it, I laughed.

Because while they were sleeping under the arches…I was down there welding staircases.

Same arches.

Different story.

That’s London.

One man’s bedroom is another man’s workshop.

And above it all, the trains keep rolling,carrying people who never give a second thought to what’s happened underneath their feet.

But I do.

Every time I walk down the Cally and hear that rumble overhead, I can still see the sparks flying in that little shop under the bridge.

A pound an hour. Forty quid a week.

And a thumb that still aches when the weather turns.

Not bad for a kid who just wanted to earn a living.