One morning, the Bossman went off on one of his jaunts, leaving me in charge of the hotel, with specific orders to supervise that day’s delivery from the brewery. “Watch they men like hawks,” he had advised. “They’ll rob ye blund if ye gie them hawf a chance.”
When the brewery lorry duly turned up outside the hotel, I nipped down to the cellar, opened its door and went up the close to greet the draymen – the driver, a big surly guy built like a brick shithouse, and his helper, a smaller cheery-looking guy. The two men set to work at a pace, the driver dealing with the kegs and his mate wheeling the trolley. Their job was to deposit the delivery in one corner of the cellar and take away the empties that had been stacked up in another corner. My job was to tick off on the hotel’s copy of the order sheet the items as they were deposited. I have to admit, though, that the pair were working so fast I found it difficult to keep up with what was being delivered. Once they were done, the driver went back to the lorry to collect his copy of the order sheet for me to sign, while his mate closed up the back of it. But something about the driver, the wee smirk that suddenly appeared on his face as he ascended the close, aroused my suspicions. So while he was away I took another quick look at the delivery. All the crates were fine, I was sure, and the number of kegs tallied with the order sheet. But when I began to test the weight of the kegs, sure enough I came across an empty keg of lager. It wasn’t there as a result of a mix up; it had been put there deliberately.
“Pit yer autograph here,” the driver said when he returned to the cellar. And he handed me a clipboard and a biro.
Declining to accept them, I replied, “Ah will once ye’ve replaced that empty keg wi’ a full yin.”
The driver’s smirk disappeared. “Look, son,” he growled, “Ah’ve delivered aw that Ah’ve been given at the brewery. If there’s any problem wi’ it, it’s the fault o’ the brewery, no’ mine.”
“Ah dinnae ‘hink sae.”
“You cawin’ me a liar?”
“Aye. And a thief.”
Speechless, fuming, the big guy stared down at me. I think he was less angry about having been caught out and more with the insignificant smout who was standing up to him.
We stood, eyes locked, for a good while. Him no doubt wandering what to do next. Me hoping he didn’t notice my legs shaking. From the size of him, I swear if he had given me one slap he would have knocked me through the back wall of the cellar, down past the shore and halfway across the Forth. But Providence in the shape of a wee fat Fifer with a cigar protruding from the side of his mouth stepped in to prevent anything like that happening.
“Whit’s aw this aboot, then?” demanded the Bossman.
When I explained, he went red in the face and squared up to the driver. “Dae whit the laddie asked or Ah’ll be oan the phone tae the brewery in twa seconds flat an’ ye’ll be oot o’ a joab afore the day’s done.”
His cheery mate having already unloaded the stolen keg and placed it at the top of the close, it didn’t take the driver long to do as the Bossman ordered.
It was the custom back then to invite the brewery employees into the public bar and reward them for their hard, sweaty work with a pint of their choosing, but that morning the brewery lorry left the Ferry carrying two drouthy and disappointed draymen.