At the end of this display the little man advanced to the centre of the stage:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, now for the star turn of the evening—Samson will pit his strength against the combined resistance of four huge horses!”
During the time taken to bring the horses on the stage Samson stood by the footlights tearing up fat telephone directories, straightening horseshoes, curling iron bars around his neck, and bending six-inch nails by the dozen: all of which he flung round the audience for them to examine.
He was tapped on the shoulder by the announcer who jerked a thumb to the middle of the stage. Two pairs of heavy Shire horses stood there, harnessed up, and turned in opposite directions. A short bar was fastened behind the pulling chains of each pair.
Samson went between them, gripped a bar in each hand, and faced the audience. At the same time a man came on with a big bucket of sand, and scattered it under the horses’ feet. The two drivers asked for more and then carefully made a sound layer of sand so that their horses’ feet would grip.
“Why, that’s Boxall’s pair,” cried Ginger. “They do timber hauling from the docks.”
“Holy smoke, look at the size of ’em!” said Uncle Dave.
“If I’m not mistaken,” said Corky, “those others are Paling Brothers’ horses on the coal job.”
“Surely he’s not going to put himself between those two pairs pulling in opposite directions,” said Lady Mellerow, astonished.
“I’m afraid that’s what it looks like,” replied Uncle Dave.
Ginger went quiet. Corky felt queer, and a shiver of apprehension seemed to quiver among the audience as the horses tightened up in their collar chains. Samson’s face was grim. Each driver cracked his whip. The orchestra drums rolled a warning.
“Gee up! Geed up!” cried the drivers. The powerful horses got down to it. You could see the quivering muscles of Samson’s arms. Now he was bent low. Hooves stamped on the sand, rang with occasional cracks as they snapped through to the stage floor. The drivers flicked their whips on the animals’ flanks. Oh, how those powerful creatures struggled!
An entire suspension of breath seemed to arrest that vast audience. All was hushed—nothing but the furious sounds of the struggling horses. The arms of Samson were not quite stretched to their utmost, they held on grimly to some small reserve of power. It was an astounding performance.
A relief swept over the theatre at cries of “Whoa back!! ...” from the drivers. The horses eased up and seemed glad of the quieting words and strokings their masters had for them. Samson released his hold on the two bars and slowly straightened himself up. A spent, exhausted figure bathed in sweat, he bowed stiffly to the thunder of applause that shook the theatre.
He moved for a moment to the wings, returning with a handful of sugar lumps, and patting their foreheads he fed sweet pieces to each horse.
On this simple scene, amidst tremendous clapping, the final curtain came down.
God Save the King silenced the last strains of applause from Lady Mellerow’s box.
Uncle Dave and the boys did some handshaking with her ladyship, and Angela and Pat.
“Oh, wasn’t he wonderful!” breathed the girls. The boys nodded. Ginger hit the note of the whole party in saying: “Phew, I’m just about done in—I feel just as if they’d been tearing my arms out of their sockets!”
For Corky, images more exciting than sleep could take in danced richly in his head when he went to bed that night.
He was no ordinary boy—of that he felt sure. All the wondrous thoughts that skipped about in his mind, they meant something. There was a mystery over it all, and one day the mystery would be lifted, the truth would be revealed. ... He could see a castle, a marble castle on a hill, towering with magnificent whiteness to the sky. Tall delightful rooms, rare ornaments, beautiful furniture and a dinner gong. Oh yes, there must be a gong for dinner. There’d be orchards, and all that sort of thing, as a matter of course. Orange trees, even, and a number of high palm trees (what grew on palm trees? He wasn’t quite sure. Dates for one thing, but how? Never mind. Hairy coconuts for another.) Every morning he’d knock a coconut off the tree, get a nail and hammer, strike a hole in it, drink the juice, and eat dates in between. It would be rather a fag to eat the coconut, for it took such a lot of chewing. After all, it was his palace, oh yes, it was really a palace, he’d made a mistake seeing it as a castle in the first place.
It was really his father’s and mother’s palace. Treachery and injustice had been committed, but one day they would be righted. And after he had claimed his palace, the first thing was to invite Pat Mellerow. And she would see him as he really was. For the most amazing thing, far greater than his high birth, wealth and power, would be his extraordinary modesty. His humility, in fact. He would never show off. Except, perhaps, very occasionally, and that to put some swanky bloke in his place. No, he would behave the same to everyone. He would have no one waiting on him. Instead he would wait on the older people himself. All the poor people around his estate, to them he would give all his wealth and money. And though he would remain lord and master, yet he would never show it. And Pat Mellerow would love him for it.
The wonderful part of it was, he could behave just like himself. Just like Corky. For though it went unnoticed now, and nobody thought a thing about it, then they would see how marvellous he really was.
9 Corky Gets Out on the Road
“I’ve seen Amos with the sulks on him a whole
day—until at the finish I’ve had to buy him
a bar of chocolate.”
“YOU’VE got something on today!” was Bill Posk’s mystifying greeting to Corky on Monday morning. “Just wait till the guv’nor comes—he’s got it in for you!”
Corky was rather used to Bill after a week, and gave little attention to the threat. However, when Mr Crater did arrive, he went at once to Corky, but placed a fatherly hand on his shoulder.
“Would you fancy a little trip out today, son?” he asked. “It’s like this, young Alfie Green’s got blood poison and won’t be in for a few days, and I haven’t a lad for his pony.”
“Oh, yes, sir!” cut in Corky excitedly. “I’d love it.”
“You would, would you, well, there’s one snag—that pony of his, Satan, she’s a bit of a terror when she’s one way out. I wouldn’t feel at ease, somehow the whole day——”
“What about a swop?” piped a voice. It was Ginger.
“Listening-in again?” remarked Mr Crater.
“Naw, it just happened that I overheard you,” Ginger answered airily. “And I was going to suggest Corky take my pony, Amos—he’d be as good as gold—and I’d take Satan out.”
“What’s your journey?” asked Mr Crater.
“Oh, a nice little load of chair samples to Richmond,” said Ginger. “I’ll tell him where to pick them up, at Briggs’s Warehouse ...” and Ginger began to explain, running a stubby finger along his curry comb. “When you’re loaded come down here, it’s the New Kent Road, see? Proceed directly along, past the Elephant, bear left, St George’s Road and straight on, then follow the tramlines, and you’ll come to the old Westminster Bridge. Can’t mistake it. On by the old Gasbag Building——”
“Gasbag building?”
“Yay, that’s the Houses of Parliament. This bit of handle here is Victoria Station. This string is the 11 bus route, Buckingham Palace Road, Pimlico, Fulham, and follow on. Here you’ve got Hammersmith, turn left, Hammersmith Bridge Road, that’s up my arm, see? Now my right ear is Putney, my nose Barnes. You take my left ear, see—? along the old 73 bus route to Richmond. Right, you’re there. Now you want to come back. See this button on my shirt? Oh, it’s come off. Well, see where it should be—now you start off from there——”
“Just a minute, Ginger,” interrupted Mr Crater. “Who’s in charge of this firm?”
“Well, I suppose you’re in charge of your part of it, and I’m in charge of mine.”
“Yay, but who’s supposed to
be running the job? Me or you?”
“Oh, the job ...” Ginger paused. Then gave Mr Crater a look, square in the eye: “A job will run without a guv’nor. He’s a kind of figurehead, see? ’Tain’t his fault, it’s the circumstances.”
“Phew, you’re more than a match for me, Ginger. Tell young Corky here what to do, where to go, and so on,” and with that Mr Crater departed.
An hour later, in a condition of excruciating excitement, such that made it so he could only produce a strange, squeaky “G-g-g-g-,” for “gee-up,” Corky left the stable yard. Not that there was need, or point, in hurrying the confident Amos. He kept close behind the cart in front, which was Ginger’s. There was a line of six ponies and carts going quietly into the street, where Mr Crater and Bill Posk were watching out on inspection.
Meekly the boy drivers stood on their carts, gently holding the reins. Corky was surprised at the slow pace they moved along the street. They turned the corner. Suddenly he felt a whizz of wheels by him. A pony and cart shot ahead, two others in hot pursuit. The drivers standing on the shaft board, hollering like mad, and balancing effortlessly on the dangerously swinging carts.
“What’s up?” he cried in alarm to Ginger.
“Aw, take no notice,” answered Ginger. “It’s every morning alike—they race to the teashop. ‘Course, that’s as soon as they turn the corner, and get out of the guv’nor’s sight.”
“A bit cruel, isn’t it, to the ponies?” said Corky.
“I don’t think so,” said Ginger. “They seem to enjoy it. You’d better look out, old Amos is going to join in. And I can feel Satan pulling away——”
Sure enough Satan set off at a good trot. And with a sort of warning turn of his head to Corky, Amos went after him. But Corky couldn’t stand on the shafts. Indeed, he could hardly stand at all. The animal seemed to be quite out of control, and Corky expected a crash into a tram, or a fruit lorry that swung out of a side street. But no. It was really amazing how things sorted themselves out. Just the same, as far as Corky was concerned, Amos was quite on the loose. Suddenly, without any guiding from the reins, Amos swung around a corner, Corky dropped to his knees, and was in that position when Amos drew to a halt behind the line of carts. Ginger was waiting. “Follow me,” he said.
Inside Maggie’s Café a terrific chattering was going on.
“Large tea an’ three of bread and drip, Maggie.”
“Make mine four of toast, Maggie.”
“Any kippers, Maggie?”
“Plate of bubble and squeak, Maggie. Can’t afford a rasher today.”
“Mine’s a small tea, Maggie, and five slices of dripping toast, Maggie.”
Corky thought he’d never seen anything so cheeky as the manner these boys just flung their orders at the waitress. She was a stout figure, easy and smiling, not looking who gave the order, but mysteriously appearing with each one to the right customer.
“What are you ordering?” Ginger asked.
“Oh, I don’t feel very hungry. I think I’ll just have a cup of tea.”
“Don’t be daft,” said Ginger. “Why, before it comes anything like dinner-time your stomach will think your throat’s cut. You’d be surprised how hungry the fresh air makes you, and a bit of work in the bargain. Order something. I’m having a nice little pair of kippers.”
The next moment Corky found himself calling out shyly:
“Small tea, and two of toast, please,” he hesitated, then added, “—Maggie.”
She quickly returned with his toast, and Ginger’s kippers.
“You’re a new boy, love?” she asked. “Be careful on the roads, there’s so much traffic about these days. I can never understand how some of these young beggars don’t get killed—the speed they go at.”
Corky smiled, and flushed, and then he got the odour of Ginger’s kippers, and felt very hungry. Maggie must have spotted it, for she said, “Perhaps you’d like a pair of kippers as well?”
“N-n-no, thanks, Maggie.”
“’Course he would!” said Ginger. “Bring him a pair along, Maggie.”
Maggie bent her smiling face to see if Corky would nod. There came cries from the other boys:
“He’s got a girl of his own, Maggie.”
“Hy, behave yourself, Maggie. Consider our youth.”
She went off to the kitchen, muttering, “Saucy blighters.”
“I tell you I don’t want any kippers,” said Corky to Ginger, not wishing to appear the sort of person who can’t make up his mind.
“’Course you do,” said Ginger, simply.
The next moment Maggie arrived with two lovely kippers for Corky. And didn’t he enjoy them! He made a promise to himself that he’d have kippers for breakfast the rest of his life. Before the meal was over a pony driver named Ernie sidled up to him:
“Could you lend me thri’pence?”
“No,” cut in Ginger, briefly. “He can’t lend you threepence. But I will. There you are. And I want it back next Saturday morning.”
“What did you do that for?” asked Corky. “I would have lent it to him.”
“Yes, and you’d never have seen it again.”
“Well, threepence is not so much. It wouldn’t have done me any harm.”
“I know that,” said Ginger. “But it would have done him some harm. He’s always on the borrow, and seldom pays back. He knows I’ll take it out of his ribs if he doesn’t pay me. Ready? Let’s go. But first, ask Maggie to put you a cheese sandwich or two up. And I’ll tell you a lovely spot you can have your lunch—in the open air. And you’ll probably get a cup of tea from a house nearby, for nothing. Now listen, and I’ll tell you everything. How to get to Briggs’s warehouse, and how to go about the whole business.”
Coming out of ‘Maggie’s caff’—each one had a tidbit for his pony. Corky, having been warned by Ginger, had a slice of toast. Other boys had lumps of sugar, scrumped from the big bowl near the kitchen. The ponies’ heads turned expectantly and the boys petted them and coo’ed in their ears. One boy teased his pony, kept putting his hand behind his back, saying, “Sorry, Captain, I ain’t got anything for you this morning,” while Captain shook his head impatiently, as much as to say, “Stop kidding. Hand it over, and let me be tasting.”
“You must never come out without a bit or two for your pony,” said Ginger. “There’s nothing hurts an animal’s feelings more than a bit of neglect in that way. I’ve seen Amos with the sulks on him a whole day over that sort of thing, until at the finish I’ve had to buy him a bar of chocolate to get friends with him.”
10 The First Drive
“There’s worse things happen at sea. Forget
it. Nobody knows who’s done it. ... Off
you go.”
CORKY finally managed to load his six chairs. Oh, but what a job it was! These workers on the loading bays could behave awkwardly if you got on the wrong side of them. Show any signs of eagerness to be away, any suggestion of haste, the slightest hint of hurrying them, and you were lost. They’d make you wait and wait. And unfortunately for Corky he had crashed into the loading business with too much spirit.
“’Tain’t no use you rushing, mate,” a loader had told him. “Your stuff’s right at the back. I don’t know when we’ll come to it.”
Corky felt a sudden deflation of heart. He might be here until late afternoon. Luckily a fragment of Ginger’s advice wafted into mind: “If they ever try holding you up, you agree with ’em. Make out you’re pleased. Act as though it suits you—as if you want to go somewhere.”
So—“Okay mate,” replied Corky, cheerfully. “I’ll go get me-self a pint of tea an’ a feed. All right if I’m back in a couple of hours?”
“Suppose they’re ready before that? What am I going to do? Hold the job up till you come back?” snapped the loader. “Better back your pony in now, an’ I’ll see what I can do.”
“Hy, what game?” shouted an L.M.S. carman. “I wuz here before ’m.
That did it. Corky had to b
e loaded first now. Moving out with his load he felt sorry for the carman, who was flinging curses at the loader. But as Corky passed him he gave a whacking grin and wink, whispering: “If he holds me back another half-hour it’ll save me doing a load this afternoon.”
It got you in a proper sweat, driving for the first time with a load on. A pony’s harness was so loose and joggy: a wonder the whole affair didn’t get uncoupled. And the mad Ikes on the roads! it was unbelievable. The way they came skimming past you. Dash it all, it got your shirt clinging to your skin, and rolling up like a Venetian blind. (“How do you make a Venetian blind?” “Knock his eyes out.” Silly joke, thought Corky. Why do all the bad ’uns stick, and the good ’uns get forgotten?)
Phew, it made your arms ache. Pulling this way and that, you had to keep your wits about you, too. All the little things you had to watch: traffic lights, tramway lines, bobbies on point duty (why couldn’t they give proper signals?), nippers darting off the pavement, fat women (Fat woman: “Why did you knock me down? Why didn’t you go round me?” Motorist: “I didn’t think I’d have enough petrol.” To think I used to laugh at that sort of thing.) Och, the curse of the prophet’s beard on that taxi driver! he almost whisked off old Amos’s nose. (“The meanest thing on the road is a taxi driver,” Ginger had said. “They’ll take the milk out of your tea, an’ come back for the sugar. Yay, if a taxi driver had a couple of gumboils he wouldn’t give you one.”)
But crossing Westminster Bridge Corky could sustain his tensed-upness no longer: he suddenly relaxed. He let the tightness go from his arms, and the reins fall slack, he shut his eyes against the watching of every piece of traffic. “Let them all come, let them dash and flash, and bang and clang, I’ll take it easy,” he sighed, and rested comfortably back. Amos moved along surely and steadily. And Corky realised his fuss and anxiety had been quite unnecessary. There seemed to be a huge system of traffic-cops—invisible ones—at every spot where traffic overtook, cut in, cut out, spun round, went by. One saw numerous “close misses” but no crashes. Corky put aside his nervous fears, there was only one thing to it: take his chance amongst the busy, thronging road activities.
Pony Boy Page 6
