May 1820, Navvies’ camp, Haggerstone village
Danny looks disconsolately down at his breakfast: six rashers of leathery bacon – more fat than flesh – a small crusty loaf of day-old bread, and a tankard of insipid beer.
‘Stare at it any longer, Danny, and the crows will make off with it,’ remarks the woman serving the food.
‘Crows widnae dare go near this shit,’ replies Danny, taking a last couple of swift drags on a clay pipe, which he then duly lets fall to the ground.
‘You might be right, there,’ she mutters, stealing a glance towards the kitchen. ‘Best be on your way anyhow – you’re holding up the line.’
Danny shrugs, and slinks off to the table nearest the stall. At the far end, the Irish crew are in fine voice despite the early hour, singing like it’s a veritable feast day. On the other side, the English are already on their second pints. No Scots as yet though: he has the table to himself.
