“I wouldn’t touch mine, either—else I’d get murdered. But I can spend the day’s wages Scrincher paid me.” Ginger hesitated. “Corky, what about telling the old folks at home?”
“That’s the trouble. It don’t stand thinking about what old Uncle Dave’ll feel like. And your Mum’ll be in a way, too.”
“Suppose we write ’em letters?”
“That ’ud be too late. They’d be worrying all night. We’ll send ’em telegrams, eh?”
“Knock a bit of a hole in our capital, won’t it?”
“Let’s go across there and see how much it costs.”
They went over to the post office, looked for the telegram counter, and inquired the charges.
“Penny a word. Minimum charge a shilling,” they were told.
It was after many false starts they finally put together two telegrams to their liking. Corky shoved his under the grill. It read: “Please don’t worry, Uncle Dave. Not be home tonight. New job. Please don’t worry. Love, Corky.”
The young lady checked the words, then remarked: “You’ve got ‘Please don’t worry’ down twice; did you want it that way?”
“Costs threepence for that, don’t it?” said Ginger. She nodded. Ginger grabbed a pencil.
“I’m taking the word ‘please’ out of mine,” he said. “There y’are, ‘Not be home tonight. New job. Don’t worry. Ginger.’ That reads all right, lady? D’you charge a penny for little words? I mean such as ‘be?’”
“Yes, a penny for each word.”
“Oh, right then, I’ll change it. ‘Not returning home tonight. New employment. Don’t worry. Ginger.’”
“Now what about yours?” she asked Corky.
“You could take the second ‘please’ out,” he said, “but leave the ‘don’t worry’s’ in.”
—But as the woman had her pencil poised to strike out ‘please’, the picture of Uncle Dave rose up before Corky—of him coming in tired and weary from work, reading and re-reading the message of the telegram—and Corky felt a lump of something bob up in his throat, and he let out a cry:
“Leave both ‘pleases’ in, please.”
Ginger and the woman looked at him. Neither spoke. The boys paid the charges and left the office.
They stood outside in the street for a few moments. A big step had been taken.
“All I hope now,” spoke Ginger, looking upwards, “is that it don’t start raining. That ’ud put the kybosh on us proper. How far did you say this North-West port was?—I like the sound of that, don’t you, Corky—North-West port.”
“About two hundred and fifty miles, near as I can say.”
“Well, if we want to get there for tea-time, we’d better get started. Put your best foot forward, comrade.”
“We can’t walk it, Ginger. Leastways I don’t intend we should. Tell you what we’ll do: take an Underground to the most north point in the direction we want, then get on the main road, and perhaps we can jump on the back of lorries.”
“Good idea, Corky. But it looks like we’ll be spent up before we leave London.”
“That’ll be all right. We can sleep in barns and fields; and pick up a bob or two doing odd jobs, just to get a bit of bread——”
“—And tea. Come on, there’s Lambeth Underground.”
The fare was one-and-twopence each. They hurried to the lift, and made a dash for the train: for, as Ginger remarked: “Once started on something, even if it’s an expedition to the North Pole, I can’t content myself till I get going right into it.”
At Charing Cross they changed trains, taking the Northern Line.
Without talking they sat watching the station names: TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD: GOODGE STREET WARREN STREET: EUSTON: CAMDEN TOWN. Corky leaned over and whispered to Ginger: “I’ll bet all the people in here take us for a couple of errand boys, or plumbers’ assistants going for nails and putty. They wouldn’t realize they’re looking on two lads who are without a place in the world, who are setting out on adventure of such uncertainty that might land them at death’s door—harpooning whales round the Dogger Bank, or battling to the last gasp with some tiger shark.”
“I feel like shouting it out, Corky,” piped Ginger. “Look, there’s a girl opposite playing that daffy game of guessing what people do. Why, I’ll bet she’d put us down as a couple of kids playing wag from school! Two more stations and it’s High Barnet.”
They rose, got out, and went up the slope to the bright sunny road.
“I wonder which is North and which South?” said Ginger.
“Don’t tell me you don’t know North from South!” Corky said. “Imagine you were standing on a map, which way would you go? This way, of course, up, up——If you’re not satisfied I’ll go and ask that copper——”
“You leave the police force alone. The less I see of them the better. I’ll never forgive them for getting me a ten bob fine for playing football in the street. Right, I’ll take your word for it Corky. Here goes. Legs, do your stuff!”
Corky had his nose in the air, sniffing what he imagined to be the cool north breeze. He was almost walking on his toes. Ginger gave a despairing look to a bright shop window across which was splashed the one word “TEAS”, then after Corky he went.
21 On the Open Road
“I want to lie down, alone, to die, somewhere
on an ould mountain where no eye can see
me.”
BETWEEN spasms of quick walking, almost marching, the boys would realize a dawdle had crept into their pace, and one or the other would say: “Hy! What about it? Let’s get cracking——” and hearts stirring to the occasion would urge firmer and faster steps.
“I don’t hold with this lark of going blindfold into things,” said Ginger after a time. “I mean I’m not satisfied in my mind whether we’re going south, north, east or west.”
“Instinct——” said Corky. “You leave it to me. I’ve got what you call a sixth sense——”
“I don’t care if you’ve got a tenth sense. I’ve met with your sort before today,” chaffed Ginger. “We’ll come to the sea, and you’ll say, ‘Look, John o’ Groats’, and like as not it’ll come out that we’re at Land’s End. I’m going to ask somebody, but not a copper. I wonder would that bloke in that little caff know—look, the one across there.”
“Don’t come the old soldier, Ginger. I know what you’re after—the sweet cup of char again. Blimey, if I hadn’t seen your father and mother I’d swear me life you was a Chinaman. Anyway, if you ask anybody it’ll only give the show away; they might tell the police of us.”
“Pipe down. Just watch me, this bloke coming along—he’s got a stern look, and smokes a big pipe. Take my tip, Corky, such individuals always are on the soft and simple side.”
Ginger put himself in front of the man.
“’Scuse me, sir,” he began, “but would you mind settling a little bet between me and my mate?”
Corky sighed, relieved; and sent one of his you-artful-blighter looks at Ginger.
“I’d be only too glad,” came the reply. “What is it?”
“Well, he reckons this road here leads south, and I say it leads north.”
“Oh, you’re right; and I’m afraid your friend is wrong. As a matter of fact, this road leads north-west. If you kept to it you’d come into St Albans.”
“That’s not very far north, is it?”
“A matter of eight or nine miles, I imagine.”
“Are there many lorries come this way out of London?” put in Corky.
“Oh, a considerable number,” replied the man. “In fact, I happen to own a little property along this road, a few cottages and a sweet shop, and this heavy stuff rolling by simply shakes the mortar out of the bricks. You’d never sleep a wink the way they come—dashing, crashing along the road. You just have the feeling about each one, that it’s going to come swinging right through your front door. Of course, they never do.”
“Of course not,” said Ginger. “You’d say, sir, then,
supposing me an’ my mate kept walking, stuck to this road, we’d come out somewhere in the north?”
“Most assuredly.”
“Thanks, guv’,” said Ginger.
“Thank you,” said Corky, “we’ll be getting on our way.”
They got into a good even stride. Ginger moved more spiritedly, now that he was satisfied they were going in the right direction. Occasionally he broke the silence by passing remarks:
“Ain’t the ground hard? Funny, I never noticed it before.
“Come to think of it, a pair of legs ain’t anything to shout about, I mean comparisoned with wheels, pneumatic tyres, and forty horse power. I wonder what h.p. is this pair of legs I’ve got? Not much I fancy. If I look down at ’em I can’t imagine I’m me.
Corky found this so pleasant and good about Ginger: that he said thoughts as they came to him. There was no messing about with words, seeing first how they sounded; and no hanging back thinking, till the words came out stale and stiff—as sometimes happened to himself.
“I’ll whistle a tune, Corky, that should help us along.”
There he was again, piping out a cracking little tune. It felt fine to keep in step with it. What was it called? Ah, The Road to the Isles—good old Ginger, keep it up. Just as the fancies came to his mind Ginger popped them out. And here was himself, his little brain all crippled up with thinking. And when he’d finished there was nothing to it.
“Nice piece of grass there, Corky. What about it? What about an idle for ten minutes?”
“Now we’re on the main road, let’s keep going. I want to put a good few miles between meself and London, Ginger.”
“Just as you like,” said Ginger. Now he was singing John Brown’s Body.
Oh, Ginger, you’re a lovely mate: thought Corky. A tune like that is just what I wanted. The very thing. Funny, it wouldn’t have come to me in a month of Sundays. Just the same, someone has to do the concentrated thinking. I mean, had it been left to Ginger we should have been sitting on the grass this minute. There’s one thing about walking, you’ve got to keep going, or else it gets harder, and almost un-put-up’able.
Corky was glad it was he spotted the little dining-room just back off the main road. They had been walking in silence for a time, having reached that stage of tiredness where words drain out one’s strength.
“Oh, Ginger, we might be able to get a bit of a feed across there. It’ll be about two o’clock, an’ we haven’t had any dinner yet. What do you say?”
“I’m with you; the old turn had got to thinking my throat was cut, or else leaking badly. Come, let’s get in.”
There was very little left: “There’s some steam pudding and treacle?” suggested the man.
“That’ll do me,” said Ginger.
Corky just didn’t fancy anything sweet when he was hungry. He liked that to come after. And yet he felt he shouldn’t start off on the tramp by being fussy.
“Have you nothing else at all?” he asked.
“I could knock you out a couple of cheese sandwiches, son. How would that suit?”
“Oh, thanks, that ’ud be fine.”
“One steam pud, and two cheese sandwiches.”
“Make it two steam pud,” put in Ginger. “I’ll accommodate his share. An’ you’d better let me have a couple of sandwiches as well, please.”
Again Corky had to envy Ginger—the way he gobbled up his pudding. So long as it was food Ginger ate it and enjoyed it. He could start with tea, go on to rice pudding or apple pie, and eat his way back through meat and gravy, ending up with potatoes, and you could bet it wouldn’t make any difference to him. Corky enjoyed the sandwiches; and when he saw Ginger swilling the steam pudding down with tea it struck him there would be stomach trouble later on for his mate. But no. Ginger was ready as soon as Corky, and out they went and along the road. You’re a proper case! thought Corky, as Ginger strode loosely along.
It was teatime and the boys were still stepping along, now dogged and weary.
“Strikes me this tramping caper isn’t all it’s made out to be,” said Ginger. “How much further have we to go?”
“Don’t snarl at me,” said Corky. “I didn’t make the roads.”
Ginger gave him a look that said ‘No, but you’re the one who suggested walking them’.
“Another two hundred and forty mile, I should say,” went on Corky, “but St Albans is only a couple of mile now. We’ve only done, at the most, seven miles——”
“It’s enough,” snorted Ginger. “I’ve just about realized there’s a lot of bunk in the superman stuff—a guy running twenty-five miles right off the bat, or starving on drops of water for ninety days, and how they brought the good news to Ghent, and so forth. It’s a lot of talk.” He spat in the roadway. “I like hard facts. In future I’ll want to know the very day he did it, and why; and who he was. I’ll want the lowdown, not the rigmarole. This ‘hand-in-the-water-dyke’ kid in Holland, how did he come to keep it there all night and save his country? You feel what it’s like handling potatoes in cold water during the day, and you’d start to have your doubts about this little hero.”
“It’s on account of you being tired.”
“Tired, me gran!”
“You’ve lost faith in yourself because you’re weary, and now you’re trying to make out you’ve no belief in mankind——”
“In mankind’s legs——”
“Look, let’s ask that man beside the road, let’s ask him something.”
“What? Ask him what?”
“Oh, anything. He might have an idea.”
“You mean that old tramp across there, paring his toenails? Aw’right, you’re right, Corky, he does look a lary sort of bird.”
“I can tell with his face he’s got a lot in his head.”
“An’ not so much in his stomach, poor beggar. Come on, Cork.”
He was a man with grey hair, a face tanned and unwashed, a bit of a beard, and blue eyes that seemed they might pop his face into a smile at any moment. It must have been his clothes that made Ginger feel he was unfed, they were draggled and raggy, with holes in the grey jacket and waistcoat, and a huge hungry rent up the side of his raincoat. His face looked good; perhaps a little defensively crafty, just a shade so.
“Excuse me, sir,” Corky said, “but could you give us some idea if it gets dark where we’d be likely to get put up for the night? Where they wouldn’t charge us, I mean, like a place where they’d let you sleep in the barn.”
For a moment the man’s face showed him in doubt as to how he should take the two before him: just a shadow of surliness passed across his eyes, then they cleared.
“Is it on the tramp ye are, boys?”
“Well, yes and no,” Ginger nipped in. “It’s like this, guv’, we’re making for the north, want to get on a fishing trawler, see. Lost our jobs we did. Well, to tell the truth, I got the pedlar, and my mate resigned in sympathy. An’ I can tell you, it’s more or less sympathy that’s got me walking along here with him. Come all the blinking way from Barnet we have.”
“Then sit yourselves down for a minute, an’ pardon me if I just finish this toenail off. I’ll be able to ruminate better——” He gave a pleasurable curl of the blade along his huge toe, and a quarter-moon of thick horny nail fell off. He gave a satisfying rub of his palm to the newly-cut toenail, then most carefully, eyes screwed tight in precision seeing, he made a V incision in the middle. He looked up at the gaping, curious boys.
“Now I’ll bet yeer wondering what all that’s about. I’ll tell ye. Ingrowing toenail! I’ve had it this thirty-two year. A tight pair of socks, that did it. Did ye know that now, tight socks can do more harm than tight shoes? It comes and it goes—I’m referring to the ingrowing. Once I was without it eighteen months, and another time three years, but it came back again to the same nail in the finish. But you can bet your bottom dollar, boys, the little V will take the sting out of it. Now where’s them toe-rags I had? Ah, here we are.”
He picked up two handkerchief-like pieces of cloth, and tenderly bound them around the toe part of his feet. Then he skilfully slid his old socks on over them. Next he got his feet into two old, wide shoes.
“I’ll not lace them till I’m ready for off. Forgive me my bad manners, will you, please, I just had to finish the job when my mind was on it. Cutting toenails is that kind of work, one needs to be in the mood for it.”
“That’s all right,” said Corky. “I hope you didn’t mind us butting in on you——”
“Not at all. Arra, why would I? Now what was it ye wanted—a roof for the night? An’ yeer making north, is it? Well, boys, if you’ll take a tip from me, an’ they say ‘take a fool’s advice’, I’d say to ye—Go back home at once.”
Corky’s face looked dismayed. Ginger’s questioning.
“Now, much as I hate to discourage you,” the man went on gently, “I would tell ye, shut yer eyes on what ye were going to do, and go home.”
Taking a perceptive glance at Corky he smiled.
“No, is it? Good enough then. I like one who knows his own mind. But have ye considered what a hard awful time lies before ye?”
“I reckon you can get anywhere with a stout heart——” began Corky. He was sorry the minute he’d let it out. It set the man off laughing; and Corky realized it was only something he’d read somewhere, though he half-believed it himself.
“Hee, hee,” chuckled the man, “pardon me, son. Stout heart, stout heart,” he repeated, again and again.
Now Corky could feel he was going to lose his temper.
“What’s better? What’s better for travelling the roads than a stout heart?”
“Corn plasters!” the answer came out pat. “I’d lief have a little tin of good corn plasters than a heart as big as a cabbage.”
“Blimey!” gasped Ginger.
“Come here, son,” the man said to Corky. “Look to the road before you. It goes from here to Holyhead, and by the time you’d reach there you wouldn’t have a heart left in you. And if you keep to the roads by this time next year you won’t even remember having had one. You won’t even miss it.”
Pony Boy Page 14
