The area he was pointing at was a slab of concrete about 6 feet by 2.
'It was the floor of the old chicken house,' said the worker who had spread the ready-mix concrete that morning by hand.
'Did you not put a fresh layer over it?' asked the foreman.
'I did not. It would have raised the level too high at that spot. There'd have been a fierce hump in the tarmac if I had.'
'If there's any subsidence here, the boss'll have us do it again, and pay for it,' said the foreman darkly. He went a few feet away and came back with a heavy pointed steel bar. Raising it high above his head, he brought it down, point first, on the old concrete slab. The bar bounced back. The foreman grunted.
'All right, it's solid enough,' he conceded. Turning towards the waiting bulldozer, he beckoned. 'Fill it in, Michael.'
The bulldozer blade came down right behind the pile of steaming fresh tarmac and began to push the hot mountain, crumbling like soft, damp sugar, towards the rectangle of concrete. Within minutes, the area had turned from grey to black, the tar raked flat and even, before the mechanical roller, waiting behind the spreaders, finished the job. As the last light faded from the sky, the man left for home and the car park was at last complete.
Beyond the wire, the old man tinned and shuffled away. He said nothing, nothing at all. But for the first time, he smiled, a long, happy smile of pure relief.
PRIVILEGE
THE TELEPHONE RANG just after half past eight, and as it was a Sunday morning Bill Chadwick was still in bed. He tried to ignore it, but it just went on ringing. After ten rings he hauled himself out of bed and down the stairs to the hall.
'Yes?'
'Hello, Bin? Henry.'
It was Henry Carpenter from down the road, a man whom he knew socially, but not well.
'Morning, Henry', said Chadwick. 'Don't you have a lie-in on a Sunday morning?'
'Er, no,' said the voice. 'I go for a jog in the park, actually.'
Chadwick grunted. He would, he thought. Eager beaver type. He yawned.
'What can I do for you at this hour on a winter's day?' he asked. Down the line, Carpenter seemed diffident.
'Have you started into the morning papers yet?' asked Carpenter. Chadwick glanced towards the hall mat where his usual two lay unopened.
'Nope,' he said. 'Why?'
'Do you take the Sunday Courier?' asked Carpenter.
'Nope,' said Chadwick. There was a long pause.
'I think you should have a look at it today,' said Carpenter. 'There's something about you in it.'
'Oh,' said Chadwick, with rising interest. 'What's it say?'
Carpenter was even more diffident. His embarrassment was evident in the tone of voice. Clearly he had thought Chadwick would have seen the article and would be able to discuss it with him.
'Well, you'd better look at it for yourself, old boy,' said Carpenter, and put the phone down. Chadwick stared at the buzzing telephone and replaced it. Like all people who hear they have been mentioned in a newspaper article they have not yet seen, he was curious.
He returned to the bedroom with the Express and Telegraph, handed them to his wife and began to pull trousers and a polo-necked sweater over his pyjamas.
'Where are you going?' his wife asked.
'Just going down the road to get another paper,' he told her. 'Henry Carpenter says there's something in it about me.'
'Oh, fame at last,' said his wife. 'I'll get the breakfast.'
The corner newspaper shop had two copies left of the Sunday Courier, a heavy, multi-supplemented newspaper written, in Chad-wick's view, by the pretentious for the pretentious. It was cold on the street so he refrained from delving into the numerous sections and supplements here and then, preferring to restrain his curiosity a few minutes more and look at them in the comfort of his own home. By the time he returned his wife had the orange juice and coffee on the kitchen table.