Away’n Work

Jock cocked his head then looked up from the greasy copy of Titbits. “I think that’s him lads, we’d better away’n work.” I put down my paper-back and lifted the shovel with the four nearly-ready Scotch pies from the glowing coke brazier. We shuffled out and started to weed the rows of mini-conifers. Right enough, the head forester’s battered old land-rover soon clattered to the clearing in front of our hut. He looked with disbelief at how little work had been done.
Alec drove away through the forest. He could feel the depression and frustration building up within him. Every time he visited Jock and the forgotten squad he felt the same sense of failure but each time it got worse. It was building up in him, he was having sleepless nights, he didn’t know how much more he could take. How the f--- had he managed to get landed with the forgotten squad? Many before him had tried to get some effort from them but all had failed. Jock was just too smart for them. He always had an excuse when any supervisor came near him. The hoes were blunt or gave then splinters. They’d been attacked by swarms of malarial midges, then there was the wasp’s nest they’d disturbed. Or, Jimmy had collapsed due to heat exhaustion and they’d had to take him into shade. He had even persuaded a University Professor to support his argument that the fumes from the resin of the Spruce trees could have a soporific effect on certain humans. Someone even came up with the bright idea of moving Jock back to the main nursery where he would be under constant supervision in the green-houses. He was, but worked so slowly that the rest of the workers, who, by and large, were prepared to put in a fair day’s work, were infected by his example. Productivity plummeted. So, it was decided at the highest level that the only way out was to cut losses by sending Jock to the furthest stretch of the forest and to send with him the most incompetent group of wasters. Thus the forgotten squad was born. It was also a convenient dump for these useless students that head office insisted be given summer jobs for ‘work experience.’
Alec knew he couldn’t take any more. A sudden pain surged through his left side. The pain stabbed right through him as he collapsed over the wheel. It was Jock who found him. The squad had knocked off early when the first grey cloud appeared in the sky threatening a down-pour that could have extinguished their brazier. The land-rover was crunched round a big pine tree in a mortal embrace. The steam was still wisping from the shattered bonnet. Alec was hunched over the broken windscreen staring sightlessly into his trees. Jock sombrely told the squad that this should be a lesson to all of them of the dangers of working too hard.
Now you don’t know Jock, so let me introduce one of the most interesting characters I have ever met. He is tall, lean and grizzled. Well, to describe him as grizzled is like saying Tony Blair sometimes doesn’t tell the truth. Every hair that had ever sprouted anywhere on his body would have screamed in terror at the alien sight of a razor, pair of scissors, or comb. Jock believed passionately that shaving or washing just removed the protective oils with which God had anointed his chosen people.

He’d never had a day off sick in his life and despised those who did. He had only two periods during each 24 hours, sleeping and his forestry job, to build up his strength for the two most important priorities of his life - poaching and darts.
Every morning a tall figure in a long, brown overcoat with a tattered old cap pulled firmly down over his features could be seen skulking through the woods. When he returned, each of his wide pockets would be stuffed to overflowing. Out of one you would see the blood-stained head of a pheasant, a white-eyed rabbit (no longer bunny) or the gleam from the fading scales of a salmon. The other pocket would be wriggling furiously like a tumescent erection. He loved his ferrets.
After ‘Big Margie’ had served his bacon, black pudding, sausage and eggs he would slowly make his way out to the rusty old van to join his squad for a well-earned rest. Then at the end of the day, after restoring his strength with a large plate of ‘Big Margie’s steaming stovies, it was off to the Black Bull. Jock had captained the darts team for many years. He may have had shaggy eye-brows but beneath them his eyes were as sharp as his ferrets. His feathered darts’ natural home was in the treble twenty. His exhausting day ended with ‘Big Margie.’
It took the bosses nearly 3 weeks to appoint a replacement for poor Alec.
The forgotten squad used this period constructively. The only time they left the hut was to add the scent of urine to the heady smell from the carpet of pine needles. Their skins turned a sort of greasy yellow-pale. Then Jock’s ear twitched at the sound of an engine. Wearily, they picked up their hoes and wandered out. The first surprise was that the new head forester was there. Standing in front of them, hands clenched on hips, glaring at them. Having sneakily left the land-rover further down the track with its engine running and walked up the track to their den.
. The second surprise was that she was a she!
Arms akimbo, on thighs like their tree-trunks, this fully breasted Amazon launched into a tirade of invective that would have made a barracks blush. Her flashing eyes daggered into each of them, above a mouth that cupid must have painted. The group of abashed, sensitive men gazed at her in total awe. She was simply gorgeous. Rock-firm breasts jutted to attention, thrusting points through the uniform jacket. Even through her Lovat-green trousers you could see that her long legs were as sensuously curved as the distant hills. The anger that surged through her just added to her colour and to her beauty.
The forgotten squad, man upon man, was felled as cleanly as any tree. They were in a confused meld of lust and love, but, whichever, it was head over heels - all but one. Jock showed no emotion at all. He looked at her. Then, without a word, turned and walked back into the hut. He returned, looked her straight in the eye, then thrusting his copy of Titbits at her, opened to Page 3 said -
“Is this you?”



Ian MacMillan 1,127 words