Work-camps, Whiskey Paddy, and The Elephant John
A Life On the Buildings
A familiar figure in the main corridors of the Big House, Dan Driscoll would sit among a group of his comrades, sipping at a beer, and often rocking with laughter at the yarns of his younger compatriots. Then in his seventies, Dan was one of the residents who regarded the idea of being interviewed as a waste of time. Nobody, he declared, would be interested in HIM. And it was only after repeated requests that he was cajoled into telling me something of his life. Once he got going, however, he became animated, and the memories flowed freely. When Dan became tired, he suggested that we stop, and start again another day. But when approached again, he wasn’t interested. He just laughed softly, and looked puzzled, as if to say: why are you interested in me?
A native Gaelic speaker from the west, Dan , like some of the other older residents, had some difficulties with “ the English”[language], and seemed increasingly lost in the whirlpool of Camden street-life.
We were poor people. We lived out in the country. It was a big family.
I come over here in 1947; I had brothers here before me. Well, one got wounded in Dunkirk [in 1940]. One of them is dead now, the other is lying up there in the hospital, the Westminster hospital.
I was twenty-one, when I first came to London. I had worked in Ireland on a farm. You’d get fuck all, that way. And d’ye know the worst bastard of the lot? The Parish Priest. He had a big farm and you were supposed to be all blessed, working for him. One boiled egg in the morning [makes a disgusted face]. You’d daren’t ate at the same table as they [the clergy] did. A different table in a different room. There was only one dacent farmer around our place that’d feed ye — and, this was no word of a lie — a Catholic farmer would starve ye to death, a Protestant farmer would feed you great. There was a good few Protestant farmers around our way. They were the best people to work for. Picking spuds for the clergy, you’d have your toes growing into the ground before you’d get anything out of them [the clergy].
They were hard times.
We went up and down the country [England] working. Worked here and worked there, that sort of way, Manchester, all over the country. Brize Norton aerodrome, when the Yanks were there. And we used to have a good time, drinking, and so on [grins].
I had no job in Ireland. Sure, here [England], you could walk onto any site and get the start [a job]. No bother in getting a job. I had no National Insurance card. I applied for it, but it never came through. I worked for years for McAlpine under the wrong name. I gave them seven years at Waterloo on the Shell site [ under a false name]. So, the stamps [National Insurance contributions] I paid, and the taxes I paid, that was all away to fuck… It was for nothing. It’s a hard ‘oul world, bhoy.
But, then we was working with Murphy’s; well, that was all casual labour. We got picked up right there at Nelly’s cafe [in Camden] and jumped up onto the wagons. I gave [worked] a good while then, with the Graham Co. And there was an agent [the construction boss] there, … John Sullivan, he was my best mate.
We all went down to Badgers’ Mount cafe, one morning. Benny Murphy was the ganger, and he goes to us, “ drink up there, quick”. And we went in. I was the last man jumping off the wagon, and there was a big crush in the cafe. Anyway, Benny went in, and drank up his tae and ate his breakfast, and then away back, and into the wagon. So, I sat down [eventually], having my breakfast, and I took my time, and be jasus, when I got finished and went out, wasn’t the lorry gone!?
Back to [the site at] Hartington, five or six mile [away]. … I did meet the wagon coming to pick me up, when I started back. [Laughing] I couldn’t resist the temptation, I went down the hole, and when he [the ganger] came along, I gave him a belt of the grape [a digging tool].
They took him to hospital, anyway.
So, I went down there the following morning, down the back there, just behind where you caught the Murphy’s wagons. So, John Sullivan [the construction agent] said to me, “ you can’t go out there. No, not today. …You hit Benny Murphy with the grape !”
So, I said, “lucky, I didn’t jump in on top of him!”
He said, “ jump onto that wagon there”.
D’ye know where we went? I was dropped off at John’s house. D’ye know how long I was there? He built a heating system, and I was fucking about, putting slabs down in the backyard, all that type of thing. Putting up a clothesline for his missus. I had the best time in my life, there. Finest thing I ever did was to hit that bastard. He was no good, that bastard.
But, then I went to a lot of other jobs. I was in Brize Norton aerodrome. We used to stay in a big camp, 100 of us. And buses taking us down to the aerodrome in the morning. The Yanks were there at that time. And we used to have to go to Fairford. The Yanks had that, too.
But y’know, when you’d go out at that time, working, you’d drink the fucking lot — what you’d get [in wages] — that night. Understand? You’d go into the pub… the pub we used to go into, from the camp, the landlord used to come up with a car, and take us down. One shilling a man. He’d take you back up to the camp again, for another shilling. It was up a big hill. Handy, I suppose. And there was one copper who used to come on a bicycle. That was 1948, maybe 1949.
This [Arlington House] used to be a good cheap house, at one time. You’d come here for weekends, y’know, when you’d be away out in the country, working. You got a free weekend, every six weeks, and you’d get some few bob for it. All the Paddies hit Camden Town. The ‘Oxford’ [Oxford Arms pub], the ‘Brighton’… that’s all changed. Straight in here [Arlington House], for Saturday night, like. That [a bed] was about 8d or 9d a night.
But it was a dirty, rotten, low-down place. It was creeping with bugs; but then, as I said, ’twas very cheap. You’d come in here at eight o’clock, book the bed, and fuck off to the pub. Anytime you got back, they’d let you in, and up to bed. It was a rotten house, at that time. That was a long time ago. Things have changed since. Big change. Now, you have a clean bed to lie in.
I used to spend a lot of time hanging around Ladbroke Grove [in West London]. I was working below, in Baker Street, the night of the Notting Hill Gate riots. So, I didn’t know nothing about them. Finished me work at six o’clock, and you know that old crossing, at the KPH [Kensington Park Hotel, a pub in Ladbroke Grove] ? There was a little cinema house there, and it was in there that the trouble started; I think they were Dublin men [that started it]. And blacks.
That was rough.
So, I come down to the station that night, in Ladbroke Grove. Two young coppers grabbed me; hands up against the wall. I was dead drunk, but luckily, the head [police]man from Notting Hill Gate said, “leave that man go”. “Where are you coming from ?”, he asked.
“ Baker Street”— I was working in the Metal Box [factory building] for McAlpine.
“ Oh, that’s alright”, he said, “ “carry on”
I was [staying] in Clarke’s Square. I went into the Earl Percy [pub], anyway, for a couple of pints. I was determined, at that time. I said, “ Ah, I’ll just have a couple of pints before I go home…”
The KPH — that was the pub, that young Kennedy got stabbed in. The coppers woke us up that night, and the bastards already had the two [culprits] in jail. That was the first and only time that my name was in the Standard [newspaper] — “ Dan O’Donnell, who lives in the same house, says that he was a very quiet fella”. That’s the only time in my life, that my name was in the paper.
Did the Irish get a hard time? Of course they did. I remember, John Laing [a major building contractor], and a lot of other firms, had “Irish Need Not Apply”, up on the gate. There was only one firm, that DIDN’T do it. That was McAlpine. All the other fucking firms did it. But a year or two after, about 1953–54, they were damn glad to get them [Irish workers].
Yes, they had “Need Not Apply” up on the gate, the big building firms — John Laing was one of them. The only firm that never put that notice up, was McAlpine.
The biggest job that he [McAlpine] had, was the Shell site in Waterloo. It’s just over Westminster Bridge — but, it’s gone [demolished] now, and all. There used to be the upper and the lower yard. There was 1200 on that site, a lot of men.
Whiskey Paddy Reagan, a Waterford man, he was the general foreman. So, by Christ, anyways, in the upper yard — the Reagan’s sister was the cleaning woman there, in the morning. Somebody found out. She’d put out the ‘oul dirty bucket of water, y’know, out besides the door. But, there’d be a half-bottle [of whiskey] inside it. That was for Whiskey Paddy, one of her brothers.
I stole it three times [laughs] !!
I broke my leg in Waterloo [on the site]. I was a long time idle. They used to make a collection on the job, then, for you. I was off eighteen weeks, but you never got any money [wages or sick pay] for it, or anything. Only the collection.
But I went back, anyway, and you should have seen that site: way down in the muck, a hundred feet down, machines working and pumps, concrete pumps. Two concrete pumps, pumping concrete, into this lot of steel. And I came to see Caffrey [a foreman]. He put me at the back of the pump, and all you had to do was work it on and off. There was a cunt there, called Nulty [a gangerman]. So, I said to Nulty, the bastard, “ I’ll do the banking [a less difficult job, at ground level] today, and Jamesie [another worker] can take my place”.
“ Oh God, we can’t do that”, he said, “when we were young at home, poor ‘oul Jamesie and his father fed us all…”
I went on, anyway, though I wasn’t able to go down. I said I wasn’t fit, I couldn’t handle it… [Eventually] He [the foreman] said, “go in there and get a brush and go down as far as you can possibly go, and don’t come up until I tell you”.
That’s no word of a lie. Me and Whiskey Paddy’s two brothers, we went down one floor and swept that, then another…
I was seven and a half years there. Too fucking long.
We were transferred from there, to up the country — weekends, only. Straight in the pub at 9.30 [am]. The foreman knocked on the pub door. Same again on a Sunday. And I never lost a penny. He booked me in for the full whack [shift].
There was good men there, but they’re all dead now.
I was working for McQueen, on East Greenwich. Patsy Flynn from Ladbroke Grove was my ganger-man. Patsy’s wife was lying in hospital having a babby, so he said he’d have to go home.
He told me, “ pull out all the old timber from those three houses, and put it in a fire in the yard”
So.
A lorry arrived with a big jar of diesel. And I fucked the diesel through the house, thinking, “ this’ll get rid of the timber in no time ! “.
Here’s me away down to the pub. Couldn’t wait.
I had three or four pints. And I went back up, and three fire engines and about four squad cars were there. You never saw more artillery in all your life. So, I said to the copper, “ what’s wrong?”.
He said, “do you work here?”
I said, “aye”.
“ Where’s your ganger-man ?”
“ He’s gone home because his wife is having a babby.”
So, he rang up McQueen’s office. McQueen arrived out in the car. This young copper was getting a bit cheeky wi’ me.
So, I said, “ all them houses is loused up. They were idle there for three or four years, creeping wi’ bugs and everything, and they wanted me to go in and clean them out…”
McQueen said, “go into the car.”
Took me back here to Camden and I went into the Mother Redcap [pub, now the ‘World’s End’]. So, we had a good drink.
He said, “ go up in the morning, to the yard”.
But I wouldn’t go out wi’ the bastard [foreman] he wanted me to go out [work] with… because that was the cunt that tole McQueen that the lead was kinda valuable, at that time. We used to pick up all the lead, and Patsy had a little van and he’d take it away and sell it, get a few pound. That came to a halt.
Elephant John was some man; [he] worked for Murphys. The Irish [workers] claimed he was Murphy’s son. He was an animal. He was working with the very first machine [excavator] Murphy ever got (and he’s got some now, I can tell you). This machine was up on the footpath, and this very posh woman came up, seeing the men with jackhammers and digging, and she said,
“Excuse me, mister; how long is that machine going to be outside my window?”
“ All cuntin’ day, at the rate these boys is shapin’ up… “ [Laughs tremendously]. He [Elephant John] didn’t care.
We were up in the ‘North London Tavern’ [pub, near the top of Kilburn High rd.] one night, [in] the saloon bar, about four of us. They had a fire there, and you could dry out a bit [when your clothes were wet, after work]. And who was sitting up at the bar, but the Elephant. These two young fellas from Galway come in, and like myself, they had bad English, so they were talking in Gaelic. One of them took a dive over, and threw a beer over the Elephant. So, I said,
“Don’t be hitting him with your hand, young fella, KICK the cunt !”.
I went into the cafe, the next morning, and the Elephant was with a rake of them, in there.
“ Hah, you cunt, “ he said, “ that’s a dirty trick you played on me last night…”
And I said, “ weren’t YOU going to kick him out [unconscious]..???”.
The Elephant was a good man. Every day you worked wi’ the Elephant you got five shillings extra. That was a lot, then. But by God, you would have earned it, I tell ya.
You’d always get a job if you were able to work.
There was plenty of digs [lodgings]. There used to be [notice]boards, out there at the market, “No Irish Need Apply”. “Have rooms, no Irish”. But, there was a couple of houses then, Irish people took them over, on the Prince of Wales Rd. [in Kentish Town], and you’d always get rooms there. But Hennessy in Ladbroke Grove was the best one of the lot, because Hennessy had several houses. Lots of big houses. He had 189, 181 St. Charles Sq. He was a chauffeur to a doctor, and the doctor died, and left him the house And he started, then, and bought houses down in Brighton, too. He has a big club, now, up in Stonebridge Park.
There was a rake of Irish people around Ladbroke Grove at that time. But they pulled out, after the Notting Hill riots in the 50s. But, it wasn’t as big an Irish area as Camden. No matter what part of the country you were in, once you got a long weekend, it was Camden. There was the ‘Buffalo’ [ballroom] in the high street, and the dance halls in Kilburn High Rd. There was one near the ‘Bell’ [pub], but the ‘Buffalo’ used to be the best. A lot of the pubs were Irish pubs, but not them all. A lot of the old pubs are gone now; ‘Dirty Dicks’ in Parkway and another one round the corner from the ‘Locomotive’ [the ‘Locomotive’ is now also gone]. Camden has changed a lot. I wouldn’t go out on the street, Saturday or Sunday [when the very busy market is on], because [the crowds of tourists] they’d knock you down.
The subbies came in, then [in the 1970s]. I got a start in Westbourne Park. I went along to the site, and the foreman said,
“ Who sent you? I’ve no work for you, here”.
I said, “ Bradley sent me”.
And he said, “ c’mon then”.
Bradley was giving him a back-hander [bribe], y’see, getting paid for so many men on the job, and all the rest of it. I was there for months, and months, and months. That man [the foreman] never spoke to me again, never asked me what I was doing. D’ye know, I used to go for a few cans [of beer] in the morning — all the way up to Shepherd’s Bush, for there was no offy [off-licence] round there — and I would sit down, and have a few cans before I went back. For it was all corrupted, anyhow. All back-handers, and all this.
A lot of the firms folded because the work dried up. Usually before, you’d always find somebody who’d put you to work — if you were fit. Murphy’s wouldn’t have you two hours if you weren’t fit. Some of the subbies — you mightn’t get the few shillings [your wages] that was owed to you, if you ever got it.
Morris Bowler, — a Kerryman, dead now — was working up Kilburn High Rd. There’s a big trench with about five men in it, and the boss arrived and pointed at Morris,
“ What’s that man do?”
“ He’s a great little centre-forward “.
[Laughs] Oh, they [the subbies] loved the [gaelic] football.
I never used my right fucking name. So, you automatically get the flat pension. If I’d stamped my cards properly, as any human being should, I’d be getting over £70 [pension]; and all I’m getting is £67.
Most of my old work-mates have gone. Davy Connors, Peter Sullivan, etc. All dead. Best go up [to heaven] and join them, get a few cans [of beer] off those cunts.
The like of me should be put down now, anyway. I’ve been in hospital with a heart attack. That’s five years ago, now. And then, last Easter, I was taken ill with a stroke. That’s why the ‘oul legs are fucked. I was in hospital three or four weeks, and then they brought me back here [Arlington House hostel].
I never did much cooking. Wouldn’t be much good living on my own. When I get back from the kitchen, which is just in front of my room, with a cup of tae, half is spilt.
One night, I was awful bad [sick], and I spent the whole night lying on the floor. I couldn’t get up. Anyhow, some of the boys that comes to see me in the mornings, they came along and they seen me and ran down to get an ambulance. And the nurses came. But would they let me put clean trunks [underpants] on? Y’know, I always keep clean trunks and that, handy. They wouldn’t let me put the clean trunks on.
Men, outside [Irishmen, living on their own], lie dead for twenty-five weeks and are never found.
I have never been back in Ireland since I left it [in 1947]. I had sisters and people come up to see me, but… I have a sister now in Ireland, she must be eighty-five. And Nelly was over here, about, oh, six weeks ago, to visit the bloke that’s up above in Hammersmith [hospital]. And my other brother is in hospital up in Manchester.
So, between the jigs and the reels [laughs], we’re ALL buggered up.”
Postscript.
Dan never made it back to Ireland. He passed away, aged 73, while these interviews were being transcribed and edited. His remains were interred in East Finchley cemetery, after a funeral service, which many of his friends and comrades from Arlington House attended.
