Tom’s snap tin.
We were clocking off at 4.30pm down at the clocking booth (No 1), rushing like bloody hell to get down there before the Reccy shop turned out at exactly half past, imagining there was always someone behind us who would overtake us if we didn’t step on it ( which there was, of course).
It was what they call ‘damping’: the fine mist almost turning into bigger drops of moisture half becoming drizzle as we crowded into the dark booth. There was hardly anybody on our side, but quite a long queue protruding out of No.2; nevertheless we were soon crammed in by the jostling mass following close behind us.
Glyn was beside me, leaning up against the grey corrugated iron arc-shaped booth wall; behind me, pressing heavily upon me through the weight of people at the back of him, was Tom. As I turned, I saw his large head with heavy brows and snow-white hair, dramatically side-lit in the semi-shadow.
Suddenly there was a clatter beside me, and Glyn picked up a white battered snap tin with a withered thick rubber band twined twice round it.
‘Whose is this?’ He cried, turning to Tom. But Tom was looking away, and when Glyn tapped him on the shoulder to attract his attention, Tom’s beetling features turned oh so slowly to look at Glyn, and such a sad expression (which changed in an instant to vacancy) passed over his face. He didn’t speak and after a moment’s contemplation, turned away again.
‘Whose is it then?’, I said to Glyn.
‘I don’t know: perhaps it’s John’s. I thought it was Tom’s’, Glyn told me.
John looked round and shook his head, grinning blandly.
‘Tom. Is this yours?’, said Glyn, proffering the box.
Tom still said nothing, but took the box in his big urgent hands and plucked at the band. Turning to the light he took off the rubber ring and opened the tin, to start rummaging in the greaseproof paper inside the otherwise empty box.
Glyn looked at me, and I looked at him: we both grinned lopsidedly, I’m afraid, unkindly, because Tom’s eyes were glazed over as if in a trance state, and he could not talk.
Then it was twentyfive to five, and thump click, the handles of the machines were being abused and punched once more as the throngs of eager homeward-bound workers surged through the booths.
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