Curbing his excitement, Corky strode behind the barrow in slow, sure majesty. Past small boys cleaning small ponies, past old men brushing old horses, past Ginger whistling as he put the final touch—a small piece of ribbon on Amos’s tail—Corky went right along. He could look any man in the face: he was a workman.
6 The First Day
“Don’t bother to pay me for the little time
I’ve been here—put it in the Widows’
and Orphans box instead.”
WORK exhilarated Corky. His heart popped away just like a pneumatic drill beneath his undervest. At times he went dry in the mouth from swallowing his excitement. And his moods changed, changed from one to the other the whole day long.
The first half-hour he had the feeling of his two feet being firmly placed on the bottom rung of the enormously high ladder of Worldly Success. He was sure Mr Crater’s eye was on him—admiring his strength, vigour, and intelligence.
—A matter of a few weeks, perhaps less, and he may well put me in charge. I’ll make such an improvement in the firm that soon he’ll offer me a partnership. They do that sort of thing, of course. But will I take it? Other firms will come after me. They have their scouts, they’re always on the lookout for ‘thousand-a-year’ men. It just depends. Success must surely taste good, but a fine character could not forget Loyalty. Can I just toss Mr Crater aside like a worn-out pair of shoes? No, I can’t. But on the other hand, ought I to jeopardise my career? A very difficult problem ... Should I thrash it out this minute, or should I wait on events?
“Hiya ...!” the voice startled Corky. “Come back here. Call this swept up?” It was Bill Posk hailing him from the bottom horse stall. Corky hurried back.
“Look——” Bill pointed to the floor. “Why ain’t you cleaned that up?”
“I ... I did clean it up,” stammered Corky.
“Oh, you did, did you? Well, how did it get here? Did a little bird come and lay it?” demanded Mr Posk, his face in a sneer. Corky didn’t like sneerers. He never had done. They always got his rag out.
“Naw, a little bird didn’t come and lay it,” Corky grated out in sarcastic imitation of the man’s tone. “A little horse laid it.”
“Oh, that’s different.”
“You bet it’s different——” snarled Corky. With a defiant nonchalance he left the subject and returned to his barrow, spade and brush. And felt intense misery, regret for his outburst, and a wish for the day to be over so he could see his Uncle Dave. Also, he began to feel tired. His arms ached, and his hands burned from using the long brush.
I’m no use, that’s what it is, he thought. Bill Posk will tell Mr Crater. I’m sure that’s just what he’s gone out for. I’ll get the sack within the next ten minutes. I don’t mind for myself, but I feel I’ve let Ginger down. And my Uncle too. He reckons he’s never been sacked from a job in all his life, and look at me—sacked the first morning. But he says he always used to sack himself first: when he thought the boss was going to do it he used to go up to him first and say, “Don’t like this job, guv’nor. You’d better give me my cards.” Uncle Dave said it meant you always deprived the boss of the pleasure of sacking you. I wonder should I do the same? I will. But not just yet. I’ll wait till I see Mr Crater coming up to me, then I’ll run to him and get the words out first. “Sorry, Mr Crater, but this job won’t do for me. There’s no future in it. And there’s not enough work to keep an active body like myself going. Don’t bother to pay me for the little time I’ve been here—put it in the Widows’ and Orphans’ box instead. There’s my hand. Shake. No ill-feelings. Good day to you, Mr Crater. ...” Yes, that’s what he’d say. Just keep his eyes open and watch for Mr Crater.
Corky kept going with the brush. At least, nobody could say he hadn’t tried. He attacked the stable floor in a ferocious misery. He piled the manure as high as possible. And patted it down with his spade. Then he manoeuvred more spadefuls on, and patted those down. Finally he had a tremendous load on his barrow. And as he bent to the shafts he spotted Mr Crater waddling down the stables. Mr Crater spotted him. He stopped and watched.
Corky took a deep breath as he gripped the shafts. “It’s the style that does it!” he said to himself. “And I can tell old Crater as I’m passing him with the barrow.”
He attempted to straighten up, but the barrow would not come with him. “It must be caught somewhere.” He had a look round. No, it wasn’t caught anywhere. Funny, he’d have another go. Not a budge. Not a murmur. The barrow might as well have been Mount Everest for all Corky could move it. Then he saw Mr Crater approaching. Ooh, that was going to be unfortunate. He’d hate to leave a job in the middle of moving a barrow he couldn’t stir. Still, that was better than being sacked.
“Oh, sir!” began Corky.
“What’s your name?” Mr Crater ignored Corky’s beginning.
“Cornelius Corcoran, but they all call me Corky.” It’s coming now, thought Corky. I wish I could say what I want to say before he sacks me.
“If your name had been Cornelius Hercules I could have understood it,” remarked Mr Crater slowly, surveying the loaded barrow. “But how you expect to move it with a name like Corcoran—I don’t know!”
“My uncle’s called Corcoran, but I’ll bet he could move it. Easy.”
“Where does your uncle work?”
“Down at the docks.”
“But ain’t it going to be a bit awkward,” said Mr Crater, his face in a puzzled screw-up, “going down to the docks for your uncle every time you load a barrow?”
Corky was mortified at having said such a daft thing. But before he could make a reply Bill Posk came staggering along with two heavy iron weights.
“I brought ’em along, guv, same as you told me,” he said, and planted one each side of Corky. Then he took a cord from his pocket and tied the huge weights to Corky’s ankles. Corky watched in utter stupefaction—he couldn’t speak a word. Then he felt the truth in his galloping thoughts.
—They’re going to torture me, that’s what it is. Look at their faces. I’ll bet they’re two arch-criminals. Perhaps Ginger’s in league with them. No, they must have hypnotised poor old Ginger, and got him to lure me here for a job. Oh, shall I never see my little home again? What will Uncle Dave do? He’ll make my tea, and put it in the oven, and it will all be burnt. And my body will lie stiff and lifeless at the bottom of the river, with these weights anchoring it down.
And at that, Corky let his frightened eyes peep down to the iron blocks beside his two grotesquely thin and small feet. But now some of the old spirit of Corky breathed into his racing fears. He stretched to his full length, and squared his shoulders.
—If it be death then let these villains see I died like a man. Who was that saint—oh, Saint Lawrence it was—when the pagans put him on the gridiron and burned him to death, instead of screaming for mercy, he quietly suggested, “Turn me over, and do the other side.” Well, his lesson had not been lost on one Cornelius Corcoran. It would be said of him that he died with a smile on his lips. Even when he was dragged from the river, the smile would be there—an imperishable testimony to one who knew no fear, and had an undying sense of humour. And no hate. For he would not shower curses upon his captors. Rather would he have pity, yea, and love—if it could be managed, no easy order with two such objects as Mr Crater and Bill Posk—for those who had slain this young body. Of course, that wouldn’t make any difference to Uncle Dave. Once he discovered the crime it would be the end of them. He would not wait for the law. He would go and drag the pair of them out of their cells. And he’d give them ten times more than they had given Corky. That he had no power to stop. In fact, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. A noble heart may not wish revenge, no; but a smirk of satisfaction it can’t help at impersonal retribution catching an enemy in the pants——
The thoughts dwindled and came to a finish. Corky faced the two men. And from the depths of his soul he summoned a strange, squeaky voice:
“Why have you fasten
ed those weights to my ankles?”
“Blimey, didn’t you know?” said Bill Posk in deep serious tones. “What d’you think?”
“I haven’t given it a thought,” lied Corky proudly.
“Well, I’ll tell you. ...” Bill Posk’s now callous face bent to Corky: “It’s for when you’re wheeling the barrow out. So as you don’t break into a trot ...!”
With the joke out he raised his hands, brought them down to his knees, and roared with laughter. And at every glimpse he got of Corky’s extremely discomfited countenance he’d burst anew into yells of mirth that brought tears running down his chubby face.
Then Mr Crater, repressing his tickled feelings, put an affectionate arm over Corky’s shoulder:
“I told you you’d have to watch him, didn’t I, son? Now, Bill, unharness the kid.” And as Bill stooped and took the cord from round his ankles, Mr Crater advised kindly: “Never load a barrow too high. You’ll only hurt yourself trying to lift a big weight. Remember, never, never attempt it.” Then he whispered, pointing to the rear of Bill who was bent down, “You’ve my permission to get your own back—now’s your chance!” Since the guv’nor had suggested it, Corky didn’t wish to refuse. So he landed one of his best centre-half shots at Mr Posk’s round posterior. Poor Bill, he landed up against one of the barrow shafts. The load of manure overturned. It poured over him as he lay on the stable floor.
“Come on,” advised Mr Crater, as Corky hurried away with him. “I want you to go for three pints of tea, for me, you, and old Bill there. Get about ten slices of toast and dripping. You can’t work on empty guts. Here y’are, son ...”
As Corky risked a peep back at the stable door, he saw Bill Posk sitting up amidst the manure. And that gent was laughing louder than ever!
So the day went on with ups and downs, and a few in-betweens, for Corky. At the latter phase he felt flat. Work was a hard, long bore; and time passed incredibly slowly. He began to play a game with himself. When he thought it was twelve o’clock he’d tell himself he thought it was only half-past ten, so that when he heard the time it would seem a pleasant surprise. But this did not work very well. For when he was sure it must be five o’clock, and tried to imagine it was half-past three, he had a look at the clock and found it was only quarter-past three. He just couldn’t believe it. But he realized how much longer a day is that begins at six instead of eight—with work going on till five instead of four. And the jobs which occupied his hands, and not his head, they made time pass very slowly. Loading manure, swilling the yard and brushing it, cleaning harness, washing out the mangers and filling them up.
Just after half-past four the first horse and driver got in from their day’s work. The horse gulped eagerly at the huge bucket of water in the yard, and to Corky’s astonishment it drank the whole three gallons without stopping. Then, shaking aside its heavy tiredness the animal hurried into the stable. Corky watched as it went along the stalls and turned happily into its own. Then he went to have a look at it, and felt quite homesick when he saw how contented it appeared to be back in a place of its own. Then he heard Bill Posk call: “Corky! you can get your jacket on. But before you go will you slip down the street to the factory and ask the firebeater to let me have a bucket of steam. Tell him it’s for me.”
Corky went over to the nail and took his coat. As he was going out the door he hailed Bill:
“Shall I bring a cabbage back with the bucket of steam?”
“Naw, what do you want a cabbage for?”
“I thought you were perhaps going to boil your head!” and with that Corky slammed the door and made off for home.
He felt stiff and weary walking the streets. His legs had never been so tired; and his feet were sore. He didn’t realize that for the first time in his life he had spent the whole day, except for lunch-time break, on the go, on his feet. His arms hung heavy, and his hands burned, so he put them down into his pockets. And he slouched along, for he found that easier.
He saw schoolboys dashing around the streets, and became aware of some tremendous gulf in outlook that now separated him from them. He sighed philosophically at their wild display of high spirits as they galloped and chased each other. He could scarcely believe that the previous week he had been one of these animals that yelled such imbecilities at the top of their voices.
“Smithy, smythey—tiddley-ytey!”
“John, John, put your trousers on!”
“Whoopee, make way for Buffalo Bill!”
There was a thin boy in a torn jersey who pegged along keeping one leg stiff, pretending it was a wooden one, and who every so far would place hands to his eyes and gaze at a distant tramcar and halloo—“Whale O! Whale O! Stand by the halyards! Stand by to reef topsails! Holy Moses, a white whale! Shiver me timbers—it’s Moby Dick! ...”
Somehow it made Corky smile. He couldn’t resist. And he began to feel a little proud of himself, and contented. And this made him smile the more, and so he had to bend his head the rest of the way, grinning from ear to ear.
7 The First Wage
“Tcha ... as if they didn’t have enough
tastes they cant satisfy—they’ve got to learn
some new ones!”
IT was a moment of excited well-being on pay day, when Corky found himself face-to-face with Mr Crater, their hands outstretched, and the small one receiving a little envelope from the podgy one.
“Thanks,” Corky spoke in a hoarse whisper.
“You don’t have to say ‘thanks’,” Ginger muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ve earned it. It’s yours.” Mr Crater went. Ginger peered at Corky. “Ain’t you opening it?”
Corky shook his head, “Naw, I don’t think so,” then added bashfully, “I rather fancy handing it over to Uncle Dave just as it is.”
“Suppose they’ve given you short?” Ginger asked. “What will you do then?”
“I shan’t know,” replied Corky. “I don’t think we fixed on any definite wage.”
Ginger gave a sigh.
“Blimey, I don’t know what things are coming to! You mean to stand there and tell me you’ve been working a full week without knowing how much it was going to bring you in?”
“Well, I fancied it was the best thing to let him watch me for a week and see how I did work. Then he could pay me accordingly—as I shaped.”
“There might be something in that,” agreed Ginger. “Only my experience of guv’nors is—they don’t let themselves be stirred by what you call ‘shape’. They’ve got a sort of instinct, it’s bred in, to pay you just as little as they can get away with.”
“There’s a note in it——” Corky held the packet up to the light.
“What value of a note? It might only be a love-letter from Bill Posk, that wouldn’t buy much.”
“There’s a coin——
“A ha’penny, I suppose,” said the doubting Ginger.
Corky heard his name called.
“Here y’are, son.” It was Bill Posk; he slipped a bright florin to the boy. “Don’t give that in with your wage, it’s a bit extra for yourself. A little appreciation of how you helped me this week.”
Corky flushed with delight.
“Oh, thanks, thanks very much, Mr Posk.”
Ginger beckoned to him: “That’s a bit of all right,” he said. “It shows consideration anyway. And you must have worked well, or you’d never have seen it.”
“What are they doing?” inquired Corky, nodding a head toward the bunch of pony boys at the street corner.
“Waiting for the ice-cream bloke.” Ginger was scornful. “Look at Tichy Stanton, he’s just come out of the shop with a packet of cigarettes. Watch ’em all, puffing and coughing away. They’ll keep on until it’s a habit, then they’ll not have enough money to buy anything else with. Tcha ... as if they didn’t have enough tastes they can’t satisfy—they’ve got to learn some new ones!”
“Yay, that’s what my Uncle Dave reckons, that you’re rich or poor according as your tas
tes are little or lavish. And the bloke who can live content and free from debt on a little wage is better off than another who gets twice as much, but can’t manage.”
“Just look at them, crowding around the ice-cream cart.”
“Like a gang of savages.”
“They’ve got no self-control, that’s what it is,” declared Ginger. “You wouldn’t see me queueing up for something and then having to pay for it!”
“They’re all served now, Ginger,” said Corky. He added: “You’ve got to admit it looks good.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t deny that. Just watch that gang, they all got their tongues out—licking away like babies. I say, Corky, is the ice-cream man going?”
“He’s putting the lid back on——”
“I don’t see why they should be knocking it back, an’ us watching ’em! Do you?”
“I certainly don’t!” replied Corky. “Hy! Hy, mate! just a tick——”
The ice-cream man took off the lid, grunted: “Took a long time to make your minds up, eh?”
“Two wafers,” said Corky, pointing to the smallest.
“Naw, cancel that order, make it big uns!” said Ginger.
“It’s smashing ice-cream!” said Corky.
“I have tasted better,” said Ginger, looking as superior as three licks and a bite of the wafer would permit. “Oh, about what we were saying, over a man having very few fancies. I think you can overdo that sort of thing, Corky. Like the bloke who just got his pony used to living on nothing when it died. Moderation—that’s the key word! And now I’ll take this turning. See you in the morning. Mind you don’t lose your wages. All the best.”
Corky hurried happily on back to his street. He rushed in the door, to find Uncle Dave on his knees, blowing at the new sulky fire.
“Hello, me old china!” chirped his uncle. “What’s this?” he asked, as Corky shyly gave him the envelope. “Don’t tell me you got the sack already?”
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