At the
Rising of the moon
A steady drizzle was falling over the hushed
streets of Glasgow’s east end as Thomas trudged towards the meeting point. He
puffed on his white clay pipe which was his constant companion. He had etched
his initials onto it to ensure no disputes over ownership. Over his shoulder he
carried the tools of his trade; a thick handled pick and a shovel. Dawn was
slow to come on such grey days and a few smoking chimneys told him he was not
alone in feeling the chill of this November morning. From the closes and Wynds
of this, the poorest part of Glasgow, others trickled out to join him on his
walk. Some pushed wheelbarrows while others brought a variety of tools required
for the work at hand. Padraig Coll, a stout labourer who hailed from Belfast,
joined Thomas on his walk. ‘Morning to ye
Thomas. Not a pleasant day for our labours.’ Thomas nodded, ‘Aye to be sure Padraig but there’s much to
be done and little time to do it.’ As the trickle of men reached a fenced
off area adjacent to Jeanfield cemetery they could see that a hundred or more
had already gathered around a horse drawn wagon upon which stood the familiar
figure of John Glass. Thomas McGarrigle and Padraig Coll joined the small crowd
of men and listened as Glass spoke. ‘Twice now, in just four years I've had to ask our people to help us prepare a ground for the Celtic to play. The landlords squeeze us here as they did in Ireland and we had to leave our first ground behind.' The men gathered around the bearded man grumbled in agreement. Glass went on, 'Our
first task is to fill the quarry and the old mine workings. We already have
tons of earth on site boys so go where the Foremen send you and put your backs
into it. Tis a fine endeavour you undertake this day and you have my thanks.’
With that the crowd of men entered the site for a day of hard labour.
The quarry hole in the centre of the site was
over 20 feet deep and wide as a large church. The bottom of the quarry was
covered in slimy water of uncertain depth and a stout rope was kept nearby in
case anyone fell in. At the far end of the site a hand pump was being operated
to try to suck some of the water from quarry. Thomas and Padraig were assigned
to the wheelbarrow squad who formed a continuous line from a huge mound of
earth to the very edge of the quarry hole. Like a line of worker ants the men
shifted tons of earth and dumped it into the vast hole. 'They do say this was a brick yard back in the day,' Thomas said to his workmate. 'They ripped the clay from the ground and left this huge bloody hole behind.' As they worked Padraig
Coll, a man noted for his fine singing voice and encyclopaedic knowledge of
Irish folk songs, began to sing a familiar air…
‘Oh tell me
Sean O’Farrel, tell me why you hurry so,
Hush me
Buchal, hush and listen, and his cheeks were all aglow
I bear
orders from the Captain, get you ready
quick and soon
For the
pikes must be together at the rising of the moon!’
From around the site as the wheelbarrows
squeaked along the planks laid over the mud and the hammers and picks swung in
familiar rhythm, scores of voices joined the chorus…
‘'At the
rising of the moon, at the rising of the moon
The pikes
must be together, at the rising of the moon
Thomas barely looked up from his work as the
men grafted and sang in that quintessentially Irish way. These men knew what a
day’s work was and were in demand in the factories and docks of Britain because
of it. Less than a mile north of where they laboured, the great Beardmore’s
Iron works pumped black, acrid smoke into the Glasgow sky. Much of the muscle which
kept the great steel works moving came from the poor Irish community which
supplied the men who were giving up their one day of rest to make ready the
land by Jean Field cemetery.
As the morning progressed and the large pile
of earth began to diminish a huge Shire horse was brought in to haul timber
across the site. As the small man leading the horse neared the wheelbarrow
squad they parted to let it pass. The big animal lumbered past them and as it
reached a point near the edge of the quarry the earth began to crumble under
its hooves. ‘Watch out!’ shouted
Thomas as the earth gave way and the huge horse reared up before crashing into
the quarry below. Thomas reached instinctively for the small man who controlled
the horse and grabbed him by the jacket just in time to stop him joining the
animal in the sludge of the quarry. As he did so his favourite clay pipe fell
from his mouth and into the quarry hole. It was a small price to pay for saving
the small man from joining his horse in the pit below where it lay in obvious
distress, neighing forlornly.
A brief discussion was held and it was
decided that as the horse had clearly broken a leg and was beyond rescue that they
should put it out of its misery. A runner was sent to fetch a certain Mr
Cleghorn who dealt with sick and wounded animals. He duly arrived carrying a
long slim case which contained a rifle. The situation was explained to him and
after a brief look at the horse lying 20 feet below him in the quarry he nodded
sadly before he opened his case and assembled his long rifle. As the labourers
paused in their work to watch, a loud, echoing shot split the quiet morning air
and the horse’s suffering was over. Work resumed, although the men were a little
quieter.
Padraig Coll turned to Thomas, ‘That was bad luck but we must continue
nonetheless.’ Thomas nodded, ‘Aye,
and my best pipe was lost in that hole too.’ Coll smiled, ‘Sure a pipe is easy to replace, yer man who
lost his horse had a tear in his eye.’ Thomas nodded, ‘Aye, you’re right Padraig. All in a good cause though.’ As the
earth was shovelled into the pit the horse was soon covered and lost from view.
The hard work continued all that long day until darkness once more shrouded the
city.
And so it was that community gathered
together for 8 arduous weeks to create their field of dreams and give a fitting
home to their team. The old stadium, barely 400 yards away was lost as a greedy
landlord demanded a huge sum of money to rent it. This grated with many as
greedy landlords back in Ireland had done the same to many and driven them from
the land. The people had built that first stadium too and now they gathered
again to build a second Celtic Park. There were those who would like to have
seen the new club stillborn but it was people’s club and the people would never
desert it. For men like Tommy and Padraig seeing the turf laid and the
grandstand rise gave them immense pleasure.
As they walked home when their labours were
over, Padraig smiled, ‘I look forward to
seeing the Bhoys play on the new field. Tis a grand thing we’ve built here.’
Tommy nodded, ‘It is indeed and to think
they’ll be running out over a ground which holds so much of our sweat and of
course, O’Malley’s horse.’ Padraig Coll regarded him with a grin, ‘Sure it holds your pipe too, Thomas.’ Thomas
McGarrigle nodded, ‘Aye, it does and I
hope it brings them luck.’
Postscript:
Glasgow 1994
Tony McCready eased his van carefully through
the gates of the muddy building site. He stepped out to regard the huge steel
frame of the North Stand rising into the east end sky. His workmate and
lifelong Rangers fan, Andy Carrol, gazed at it too, ‘Looking impressive Tony but will your lot fill it?’ Tony replied, his eyes still on the huge
skeleton of the stand, ‘I think we will
Andy.’ A gruff voice cut across them, ‘Tony,
get yer arse intae that trench and check they pipes. The concrete will be here
at nine!’ Tony nodded towards the foreman and walked towards the trench cut
into the muddy ground a few yards from where the Jungle terrace used to be. He
clambered in, his boots splashing muddy water onto his jeans. As he examined the
joints on the sewerage pipes something caught his eye. He reached into his
toolbox and removed a small screwdriver and dug gently around a white object
embedded in the wall of the trench. It came free in his hand and he dipped it
into a bucket of water to clean the mud from it. ‘What have ye got there, Tony?’ asked Andy. Tony examined the small
object carefully, ‘Looks like a smoking
pipe?’ He noticed some letters etched onto it and what appeared to be a
harp and a shamrock, ‘Looks Irish and it
says, T. M, on it?’ Andy shrugged, ‘Well
we’ll never know who dropped it but that’s your initials anyway so ye should
keep it as a souvenir.’ Tony nodded, ‘Aye,
I will. Wonder who T.M was though eh?’
Tony wrapped the pipe carefully in a cloth
and placed it in his tool box. He’d find a spot for it somewhere at home and
it’d remind him always of his time working on the new stadium. He turned back
to the task at hand and playing his small role in the rebuilding of Celtic
Park. He longed to see it finished and to hear those familiar songs echo around
the new stands. He would always be proud of the small part he played in Celtic's
rebirth.
Just as Thomas was a century before.