oaked in sweat. There were no lunch or tea breaks. “You have to eat when you can,” said Lucni, a balding middle-aged ethnic Albanian from Macedonia.
Soon afterwards the Romanian had had enough and left. It was his first day and like me he had not been paid. His departure was good news for me because it meant I could wear his wellington boots. But it also meant that we were a man short.
Later that afternoon showers of rain slowed things down and we rested in the store cupboard. There were no windows, lights or heating and you could just about stretch your legs without touching the walls. Drinking water came from the sink in the toilet, the flush of which was operated by pulling a metal hanger in the cistern.
Thomas, 27, told me it was his third day in the job and that he shared a rented house with several other Poles, all working in the black economy. Their poor English had meant it would be difficult for them to get legitimate work.
A tall man with a wispy moustache and watery blue eyes, Thomas had come over from Cracow on a tourist visa. He had not registered to work, neither had any of the Polish people I met. “We are free now but too poor,” he said of life back in Cracow. “One day I will go back but only when I have money in my pocket.”