“The more I see of you,” he said slowly, “the more I think Crippen must have been innocent. You nearly murdered me.”
“I got you on, didn’t I? It wasn’t my fault you couldn’t jump it. You were running hard—hard, mind you, but not fast.”
“You’ve only one fault, Corky.”
“What’s that?”
“Breathing.”
“Breathing?”
“That’s right. I could grow to like you if you’d stop breathing.”
“I’d die.”
“That’s right,” said Ginger. “I was wondering when the penny would drop.”
“I’ve got my feelings,” said Corky. “I know when I’m hurt.” And he grabbed Ginger in a mock fight on the back of the trailer.
“Here, just a minute, let me make myself comfortable,” said Ginger. “Ain’t it draughty out here!” The trailer was empty, apart from one crate and the rolled-up sheeting for covering loads.
“Ain’t it grand!” sighed Corky. “We’re moving, Ginger. We’re on our way. Can’t you feel a breath of adventure at your heart?”
“I can feel a big nut and bolt sticking up under me,” replied Ginger. “Move over a bit, and let me heave off it. Ouch!” The trailer had bumped over a pothole.
“The next time I go on the tramp,” said Ginger, struggling back to lean on the roll of tarred sheeting, “the next time I go will be in my own car. I’ll pretend I’m a tramp, but I’ll have the old Rolls Royce coming up behind, just in case I need it. Ooh, what a jolt!”
The trailer jogged and jerked, since the tyres were hard and it was without load. It flung the boys off their seats, and had a harder piece of rattling surface waiting to receive them again. The wind was stiff and persistent, and caught swirls of dust and spitefully slipped them up through the space between lorry and trailer, and bowled them along at the crouched figures.
Even Corky admitted it was not very comfortable. But he felt there was nothing else for it but to hang on. It was interesting going through St Albans, and a small village some miles further on, for then you could see people. In-between the country stretched green and flat, with the long quiet road through it. A peaceful sameness rested everywhere which seemed to isolate, and bring an odd depression to the boys.
A weariness took hold of them. It was now eight o’clock, and six hours since they last ate, and that had only been a snack. The lorry careered on in haste, swinging round bends, hammering up hills, and racing down in furious freedom. The boys had nothing to say. Ginger was lying on his side, his jolting head against the sheet roll. Corky saw how pale he looked, and asked gently:
“Are you all right, Ginger?”
“Yay, I’m all right,” replied Ginger, adding, “’cept for a touch of headache. I expect it’ll go off in time.”
Corky was sitting up. He felt a bit unhappy about the way things were turning out; but within him he was satisfied that they were moving, going on, something was happening that had to happen; though it might have been more comfortable. For a time he looked anxiously for the names on signposts, but they were whipped from sight before he had time to make them out. Occasionally he caught glimpses of faces at doors, of people talking, children playing, and later of friendly lights popping up behind windows. It was all so odd to flash by them, like they were trees or plants rooted to their spots, and he saw some bird flying on its way. The swift pictures of small homes caught him unawares, and a gulp of tender feeling would take him.
Coolness came with the dark evening. The unfriendly wind chilled through the skin. Corky didn’t know what to do. Ginger was lying there looking all shrunken up. ‘He must have the cramp something awful’, thought Corky, ‘for my legs are numb, and my feet all pins-and-needle’y.’ He tried to think of some plan, but the circumstances were difficult. It was no use jumping off the lorry and not knowing where you were. And yet it didn’t seem to be much use being frozen up on the back of a lorry, and not knowing where you were going. He suddenly had an idea.
“Hy, Ginger,” he gently moved the shoulder, “come on, wake up, we’ve got to do something.”
“I ain’t asleep,” said Ginger dozily.
“The old eyes look sleepified——”
“Perhaps,” agreed Ginger. “It’s a lonely feeling, ain’t it?” he went on in a quiet voice. “I mean when the mind begins to close up, and all the little fancies come sailing around, then they’re swiped away an’ you’re left as you are. It makes me feel ever so lonely, it do, Corky, like I was a young kid again, scarce left me mother’s lap.”
Corky didn’t speak. And Ginger broke free from the way he felt by nodding a head towards the front of the lorry.
“This driver don’t waste no time, do he? Blimey, talk about the Flying Scotsman——”
“Do you feel hungry?” asked Corky.
“Hungry? I’m past and beyond it!”
“I feel that way too, Ginger. Sort of lightheaded——”
“That’s right,” agreed Ginger. “Makes me feel like bloomin’ crying. Honest, if someone was to pat me on the head this minute, and say ‘Aw, poor old beggar, what’s matter with you, love?’ I’d cry me blinking eyes out. That ain’t nothing to laugh at!”
“That laugh just come out, Ginger. Ten times worse than you I feel. Miles from anywhere, don’t know where we are, where we’re going, an’ all belonging us don’t know either. But look, Ginger, how’s the legs?”
“Oh, they’re still there, by the looks of things.”
“Well, try and move them around a bit. Kick ‘em up an’ down, get going, get the blood circulating. I’ll do the same.”
“What’s the idea?”
“Well, we’ve got to be able to jump off at the first worthwhile chance,” said Corky. “We can’t go on like this, hungry, head-achey, cramp an’ what-not. We’ve got to do something about it. Anybody can get in a mess, you’ve got to be tough to get out of one. Here, let’s rub that leg for you. How’s that? Any better? Good.”
“What’s your plan?”
“We’ve got to get off the back of this. We won’t have a bone left safe in our bodies if we get bumped about all night. An’ we must have some sleep. So the best thing is, as soon as we come to another set of lights if they happen to be at red, then off well jump. We must have come a long way by this.”
“Sleep? Where?”
“Oh, any old haystack, or along the road, come to that.”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if we were in Scotland.”
“Ready?” cried Corky. “I can feel him putting the brake on.” The boys leant over the back on their stomachs, legs dangling in readiness to drop off. The trailer slowed down, then there was a grind of gears and a jerk. “Off quick! Quick!” cried Corky. His feet touched the ground, he ran for a time, let go, and was almost jerked on his face.
“Are you all right, Ginger?” he shouted. There was no answer. Corky looked in the direction of the lorry. He saw the tail swinging out of sight. He saw Ginger clinging to the back. It was going much too fast for him to jump off. “Oooh ...!” groaned Corky. The dark grey night was around him on that deserted road. He felt alone in the world. Ginger was being swished off. He didn’t know what to do. He heard the throb of another lorry coming along.
23 Finding Ginger
“Doctor Livingstone, I presume?...”—for a moment he held up, then he swooned to the ground.
CORKY had no time to consider. Desperation gripped him, flung aside his own little personal feelings. If he had had time to think he might have felt silly about what he was going to do, and what he would have to explain. The traffic light was at green, so the lorry would come on and not stop. He felt for something to attract attention by, a box of matches—that he might make a light, or a big handkerchief to wave. The lorry was coming nearer. Its headlight was along the road.
Corky suddenly darted down the side road, ran as fast as his legs would move. He found what he wanted—the rubber strip that changed the traffic signals. He began to jump on it. As
high and hard as he could he jumped. The light facing him showed at red, so the main road light would still be at green ‘Go’. He made a sudden kneel, began striking the rubber mat with his hands, then he sat on it, and jogged up and down. The lorry was running along the nearby road towards the crossroads. It seemed that it might get through, when there came a flick, an amber light appeared with the red, then both went off, and a green light followed. That meant the main road light must be at red. Corky dashed to the crossing. The lorry was just coming to a halt. He got to the side of the cab and could hear the engine running impatiently. He stood on the running-board, bobbed his face against the side window, knocked his fist on it, and shouted:
“Hy, mister! Mister!”
The driver turned; Corky could see the calm outline of his face. He didn’t look a bit surprised. He leant across, turned the handle of the door, and shouted, “Come in, son, let’s hear what you have to say.”
“It’s me mate, me mate, Ginger,” Corky said in anguished voice. “He’s on the back of a lorry, he can’t get off.”
“Sit down,” said the driver, “an’ take things easy. Your mate’s got stuck on the back of a lorry? Which way was it going?”
“This way. Straight on here. I got off, he couldn’t. I’d have jumped on again, but it was gone.”
“We’ll come across him all right,” said the driver, “don’t you worry.”
“But he was hanging off——” Corky suddenly felt his voice break up and before he knew what was happening he was sobbing and crying: “Ginger, it’s Ginger my mate ... he couldn’t get off. He’ll be killed! It’s all my fault.” And he stuck his face in his hands, gulping, ashamed, worrying, and thinking: ‘This driver is a good man, he has a nice face and voice, and made me feel at home, and now that’s made me cry.’
There was a spurt of speed. Corky felt it. The driver reached his hand forward, turned a switch and a huge beam of light shot right along the road.
It was warm and comfortable in the cab. Corky found his bit of handkerchief and wiped his face. It felt fine in this lorry—if only Ginger could be found! He was clinging to the tail piece of that trailer. Corky brought the picture of Ginger’s hanging body right into his mind, then clutched with his fists—a testing of how long Ginger would be able to remain the way he was.
“How d’you come to be on the back of the lorry?” the driver asked. “Where were you going?”
“We’ve come from London.”
“London!”
“Yes, where’s this?”
“Oh, we’re just outside Coventry.”
“We were making for the North, for one of these places where you can get on a fishing boat. We lost our jobs yesterday. I used to have a smashing pony called Prim. That’s what I am—a pony boy. That’s what Ginger is too. We seem to be going fast.”
“It’s what you call a booster gear,” explained the driver, “a special one put in for speedy runs on the flat. We should soon catch up with this trailer bloke. You picked him up near London?”
“The other side of St Albans,” said Corky. He enjoyed saying that, ‘other side of St Albans’. Oh, if only Ginger were safe! This little part of the adventure wasn’t too bad.
“On a fishing trawler, eh?”
“That’s right, a fishing trawler,” said Corky. “My Uncle Dave used to be on one. What will have happened to Ginger, do you think?”
“It’s hard to say——” began the driver, when he suddenly broke off: “I wonder what that is?” He switched his long dazzling spotlight off, then on again. Corky pressed his nose to the windscreen. He strained his sight to catch a small figure outlined away ahead in the glaring beam of light. It struck a familiar chord at once, though it looked very strange. It was sitting like some gnome beside the night roadside, coatless, its thin short sleeves fluttering, its head hung down dejectedly.
“Ginger!” Corky jumped to his feet. “It’s Ginger!” he cried. “Oh, thank God! Thanks, God! Thanks. Oh, an’ thanks to you, mate,” he said to the driver.
The driver had to let go a little chuckle. “You’re a rum pair!” he said to Corky. “Your mate looks all the world to Dick Whittington after a night out. What’s he done with his coat? He must have been in a scrap!”
The lorry came to a halt some yards short of the figure sitting on the kerb. As it stopped Ginger just turned his head towards the driver’s window, and called out:
“Carry on, mate. I don’t want a lift. I’m just waiting for a pal of mine.” Then he let his face sink to the ground, and squatted.
Corky was down out of the cab and dashing towards him.
“Are you all right, Ginger? What you doing in your shirt sleeves? You’re shivering! What happened?”
A small, tattered Ginger rose slowly to his feet. The harsh white light illumined a pained, weary face. He extended a hand to Corky, and in posh accent drawled:
“Doctor Livingstone, I presume? . . .”—for a moment he held up, then he swooned to the ground.
Corky made a grab. He darted down on his knees: “Ginge’, Ginge’,” he whispered, “what’s up, Ginge’?”
“Looks like he’s fainted,” said the driver, bending to take Ginger up in his arms. “Poor little blighter feels like he’s frozen to the marrow. Open the cab door, we’ll put him on the bonnet inside. Aye, he’s proper done in, he is. Quick son, nip my topcoat off the hook there, spread it out like a blanket over the seat an’ bonnet. I’ll lay him down on it.”
Corky was shocked beyond understanding. ‘Was this childlike face the same one that set itself like a prizefighter and roared challenges at other pony boys? Could this pale, gentle little boy be the saucy Ginger?’
He felt very sick at heart that he should have been the cause of it. Not that he had known or thought what would happen. And he realized he hadn’t thought—that there might be much going on inside Ginger that he hadn’t understood! Perhaps Ginger wasn’t quite as tough as he appeared. In a little home where there were many mouths to feed, there wouldn’t be so much for each. Oh, sadness of the world that lives inside us every one—of which only a glimpse may sometimes be caught by another.
“Now you rub that hand, I’ll rub this ’un,” said the driver.
Ginger seemed to stir almost at once. Corky was wiping away the still beads of sweat that had got together on Ginger’s forehead, when the eyes opened, started for a moment, and there came a “Howgo, Corky!”
He looked round the strange cab, eyed the driver and grinned at him, and seemed to be waiting for the gathering of his senses before saying much. Corky’s eyes were shining with relief and gladness.
“Well, I see we got off the back of the old bone-shaker, eh?” Ginger began cautiously. “’Tain’t nearly so draughty here.”
“How do you feel?” asked the driver.
“Oh, I don’t feel too bad.” Ginger sort of sized himself up, a glance at how he was inside the big coat, and a hand across his face; then he added: “It’s a pity I ain’t washed and wearing a white nightie——”
“Washed an’ wearing a white nightie?” repeated the driver, puzzled. “Why?”
“Then I’d be all ready.”
“Ready for what? Bed?”
“Ready for the old coffin!”
“Crikey,” laughed Corky, “you ain’t so bad.”
“I can hear voices,” said Ginger casually, “like they was saying, ‘Any more to see the old boy before we screw him down?’”
“Cor, bloomin’ blimey!” ejaculated the driver. “It’s not two minutes since you dropped like a blinking log aside of the road, an’ you come round with a mouthful of wisecracks!”
“Dropped aside the road?” Ginger repeated. He paused. “I didn’t faint, did I?”
“Well, it was like you collapsed,” said Corky.
“Oh, that’s different.” Ginger looked at the driver. “You’re sure I didn’t what they call ‘faint over’?”
“Naw, you just dropped.”
“Good. Sounds weak, don’t it�
�‘faint over’?”
Now Corky looked hesitantly at the driver.
“I’m ready when you two are,” said the driver. A grin came to the corners of his mouth. “Are you thinking of walking or would you care for a lift? There’s bags of room for two.”
“What do you think, Corky?” asked Ginger, playing up to the driver’s kidding. “I allus get stiff if I do too much sitting.”
“Coo, you’re a regular little humbug, ain’t you?” said the driver, pressing the starter, revving up the engine, taking a gear, and moving off. “Sit you back there, Ginger, an’ let’s be hearing how you come to be without coat.”
“Ain’t you going to introduce me?” said Ginger to Corky.
“Ted, my name’s Ted,” said the driver.
“Pleased to meet you.” Ginger stuck out a hand. “I’m bloomin’ thankful to you, you know, Ted. I reckon we was near the end of our tether, eh, Corky? Come morning an’ a spot of grub, an’ I reckon I’ll be made over again. Oh, what couldn’t I do to a cup of tea an’ bacon sandwich!”
“You’ll be sitting down to it in ten minutes,” said Ted. “Now get on with how you come to lose your jacket.”
“The lining underneath of me jacket was a bit worn,” began Ginger. “Got itself stuck over a bolt that was sticking up on the back of the lorry—that was why I couldn’t jump off, it held me. I couldn’t get on again, either. An’ when that old trailer got to picking speed up, I didn’t half get in a state. The old feet were hopping an’ tapping an’ scraping along the ground. I tried to get on, tried to get off. I couldn’t do either. I never knew a piece of cloth to stick the way that jacket did! And I felt weak as weak, an’ the old trailer belting on, an’ me shouting to the driver, an’ he couldn’t hear anything. Till at last there was a jerk——”
“You’d got off?”
“Not likely. But one arm was free. I mean it came down the sleeve and out. That was worse. It half-turned me round, and I was running like a crab. You can’t think when you’re like that, you do the first thing that comes to mind. An’ I spins round to get the other arm loose. Oh, I got dragged an’ pulled, an’ didn’t know what was happening. An’ didn’t care much. Next thing I finds me hitting the macadam. I picks myself up. Just manages to spot the old jacket flying away off in the dark. And I sits alongside the footpath, where you saw me. There you have it as I had it!”
Pony Boy Page 16
