Joe Murphy, big builder, big man, and latter-day Flood Tribunal witness, who died in Guernsey recently, was probably the last of the Irish emigrant labourers who found gold in the streets of London. Long before the word entrepreneur entered into the textbooks of the schools of management, he and others saw and took the opportunities in a Britain laid waste by war and crying out for reconstruction. Like Joe, they were rough-hewn men, mainly from the western seaboard, who started out with nothing more than a shovel and a hunger to succeed. They worked hard and long and the success they yearned for was conceived and nurtured in their own toil and sweat.
They were at the height of their glory in the early 1960s before financial advisers, offshore tax havens and labyrinthine family trusts occupied their minds. They could have dined in Claridge's and bought the finest champagne without causing a ripple in their bank accounts, but they were most comfortable in each other's company.
Draughty corridor
Their favourite meeting place was the Irish Club in Eaton Square, London - not in the lounge or the dining-room but in a draughty corridor behind the bar after hours when the burgeoning bourgeoisie of the new Irish had departed for the suburbs. They would return here in their Jaguars from sites near and far - a new motorway, a tunnel or a housing development - to eat and drink and to banter with a few Irish journalists, myself among them, on their way home from late shifts in Fleet Street.
The corridor had no chairs or tables. Food and drink were consumed on the club's flat-topped freezer, commonly known as The Fridge. There was no menu, but the late-night porter knew the preferences of the clientele - and the limitations of the long-closed kitchen. "Chuckie Cucks and Quack Quacks" were, invariably, the dishes of the night - cold chickens and ducks served whole, dissected and eaten without the aid of knifes and forks, and washed down with an unending flow of stout, beer and whiskey.
Causeway contract
Tales were told of tenders won and lost. There was no bravado, no boastfulness. One night Joe recounted how he had won a huge contract for a causeway to an island off the coast of Northumberland. "They were all in for it," he said. "All the big boys, Taylor Woodrow, McAlpines, McLaughlin and Harvey. . .They spent fortunes on the tenders. They had geologists, deep-sea divers, civil engineers, aerial photographers, the whole bloody lot employed. I drove up on my own one day and walked the land and watched how the tides were running. I put in a tender that sunk them all. And I'll make good money out it as well."
The night porter was indulgent and well rewarded with generous tips. He confided in me that he had bought a farm of land in his native Tipperary. "I'm stocking it with cattle," he said. "Every heifer I buy I name it after one of the builders. It's only right. They're paying for them after all." And he would reel off the litany of names as the herd grew .
One night a stranger ventured into the Fridge territory. He was a young, well-spoken and personable. He was, he told us, working in management consultancy, a field of activity new to the company. After listening to the tales of contracts won and lost, of work on motorways running behind time, of rows with local authorities and other problems of the day, he ventured to suggest that the builders should consider modernising their business practices.
Personal question
There was a painful silence. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question, Mr S------?" said Joe. "How much do you earn in your job?" Mr S------. answered with some pride: "About £2,500 a year" (a substantial salary at the time). "£2,500 a year," mused Joe. "£2,500 a year. Do you know, Mr S------, I'll tell you something. If I didn't earn £2,500 every hour of every day of every week of the year I'd be bankrupt."
The Fridge was exclusively for chit-chat. Once a well-known Irish harpist deigned to join the company and offered to sing. She had barely plucked the first string when the night porter, who kept a canny eye out for the occasional police patrol, appeared. "You can have drink or you can have music," he declared, "but you can't have both." Joe spoke for the assembled company; consultation was not necessary: "Miss B------, would you ever mind putting that harp away?"