THE SECOND
‘Give it to ’im, right in the mug!’ came the jolly cry from the group of metallurgical apprentices swarming onto the bus at the main stop near the gates of the Klement Gottwald New Foundry. The petty conflict ended with a brutal closing of the folding doors, which separated the surging queue just like on the feed-line of the meat processing plant when a sausage or a ring of brawn is choked off. But then another bus rolled up, and the mob who’d just finished their morning shift pressed their way into it; and so it went on, as the stream progressed homewards.
That cry remained in Martin’s memory, as did the view of those butts crammed into coarse Rifle jeans, from the back pockets of which comb-handles protruded, along with ID cards and trade certificates. The zest for rowdiness
