Sweat pours from my brow, muscles in my arms flex and twitch, as deep in a trance, I guide my laden barrrow through the crafted course toward its destination, cutting the finest line possible past the myriad of obstacles, maintaining speed, and balance, to minimise effort, and maximise turnaround.
A trade within a trade, a barrow boy respects a well balanced barrow, long timber handles, smoothed by countless deliveries, a bowl of fine steel, with sides angled outward, to contain the load, and a tyre with air tested by thumb, to ensure a smooth flight.
Ten tons of coarse river sand arrives on the job at seven bells sharp, in a diesel barrow, a bogie drive with a tipper body, and parts with its load in a location already organised by the barrow boy.
This sand needs to be around the back of the home before smoko, and the bossman knows that the barrow boy is a cheaper option, than the few machines that are available at this time.
23 shovels to the barrow, eight barrows to the ton, and with a three minute turnaround, two of us will nail this job to the wall, and be ready for humdingers at smoko, as hamburgers were known to us then.
The first leg is a straight push up a concrete path, perhaps 20 degrees, but its a steady wheel to the crest where the path doglegs 45 degrees to the right and levels out, a perfect place to trim the barrow for the leg between a post on the left and an air conditioning unit on the right, which is gusting icy air as we pass.
At the end of the building, knuckles tucked to miss the extruded brick window ledge, the roses tied back, to make the traverse easier and keep our skin intact, a flight of stairs spins right and down to the pool area below, where the load is carefully discharged to make for minimal leveling and shoveling, and ensure that the owners don’t have an unwanted beach at the bottom of the pool.
Long handled round mouths, are the weapon of choice, cutting like knives through butter, into the yellow tinged sand, in a beautiful, rhythmical sweeping motion, gently skimming from the neat pile, and moving the load into the barrow, with a deft rotation and pre determined angle, set to ensure each shovel lands exactly where it should.
Time for a joke on the fly, as we work round each other, occasionally glancing barrows, in a race to see if it is possible to round each other up, as young bucks tend to do.
Canadian Dave is my co-worker on this job, a skinny fella, a few years my younger, who much to my amusement, cries when John Denver comes on the radio, and even pumping pungent ciggies down, he still goes hard for a little bloke.
I push hard, and manage to get one up on Dave, but that will be the only one, as the first leg has us on the ropes, and passing opportunities, are slim on this course.
It’s exciting to watch the rim of the barrow just miss the brickwork, a perfect turn with the right amount of bank, and I level the barrow for the traverse, but easy up on the speed for the downhill turn, as the handles will need to climb and my legs tighten for the hop down the flight of stairs.
Risers are standard six inch, and the bounce cushioned by pavers, allows the barrow to surge on the unwary.
The Canadian clips his heel on a step and loses some balance, but makes a grand recovery amid some of the finest dancing I’ve ever seen on a flight of pebble coated steps.
I start on a chorus of Rocky Mountain High, and a good natured, “you bastard”, utters from his mouth along with a cloud of smoke, as he gathers his thoughts and enjoys a short blow.
I’ve dumped my load near the pool and we laugh a little and try to gauge how many more “barras” to go, as my soaked shirt is hung on the railing, to pretend it is drying out.
It’s an honest job, being a barrow boy, one that requires planning, skill and strength, and engages teamwork and lateral thinking.
For me it was a great set up for the rest of my life, and one that would be a good place for our politicians to gather some grounding, because from where I look, they couldn’t organise a cold drink in an ice factory.
So next time you see a barrow boy hard at it, remember, the beauty, the craft, the skill and the passion that comes from this timeless profession, and try not to smile if you see a barra going a tad skewif!
