“Phillip Maddison, sir.”
“I will remember it. Mine is Castleton. Give my compliments to your Father, and thank him for his support. Is he in Fleet Street?”
“No, sir, he is in the Moon Fire Office.”
“Oh yes, I know it, just a little younger than the Sun.”
This was a joke Phillip could understand, and he laughed freely with the wonderfully nice gentleman.
“That balloon up there,” the gentleman went on, in the same friendly voice, “belongs to the Comte de La Vaulx, who is attempting to break the world’s record of one thousand, one hundred and ninety three miles made last October. I hope we shall meet again sometime. Au revoir!”
Both Phillip and Gerry raised their caps. Silent, side by side, prim with best behaviour and entirely overcome by the most friendly presence of the important personage, they stared out to sea until, hearing the Rolls-Royce blow its horn, and waiting for it to glide some way away, they dared to turn their heads and look upon the departing splendour.
“I suppose you know who that was?” asked a man, coming up to them. He had been standing by the railings, listening. “That was none other than the great Sir Wilfred Castleton who spoke to you, the millionaire owner of The Daily Trident. I’ve seen him about here before, he usually stays at the Royal York Hotel over there. Every celebrity in the world comes to Brighton, sooner or later, and stays there. Castleton took quite a fancy to you, I could see that. That’s why he asked you your name. He never forgets a face or a fact. That’s why he’s got on. There now, don’t you feel proud, to know who he was?”
As soon as they saw the uncles approaching, the boys ran to tell the exciting news. They sat on a seat. When Phillip had finished his story, Uncle Hugh said,
“Castleton and his Yellow Press! A catchpenny Empire of Money, Bluff and Blarney! I wouldn’t touch his dam’ Daily Liar with a barge pole.”
Phillip was puzzled by Uncle Hugh’s remark. He felt that it reflected, too, on Father and Mr. Rolls, who both took The Daily Trident. They were easily the best men in Hillside Road. Then Gerry whispered to him, “Tell him he couldn’t use a barge pole if he tried.”
Phillip did so, and Uncle Hugh replied, as he shrugged his thin shoulders, “Even you, Marshal Ney, whom I raised in my tent?”
Phillip did not know what this meant, but he could feel that Uncle Hugh was somewhat disappointed in him when he went on, “Yes, as you so kindly suggest, I am a wreck all right. I couldn’t handle a Boy Sprout’s broomstick, let alone a barge pole.” Uncle Hugh looked yellow about the face, with his upturned black moustache ends waxed to points.
“Now you two boys run away and play,” said Uncle Charley. “Wait a moment. Here!” He felt in his pocket, and gave Gerry the return halves of their excursion tickets. “In case you get lost, we’re going back on the six-twenty.” Opening his sovereign purse, he gave Gerry a coin. “Buy yourselves some tuck with this. Now listen carefully to what I have to say. We’ll meet you two by the West Pier, at the turnstile, at three o’clock. Remember that, both of you. West Pier, three p.m. sharp, and no excuses for being late. Have a good time, watch the traffic, keep your eyes skinned for road-hogs when you cross the road. Don’t forget to visit the Aquarium, and the fish market down below the promenade. And for God’s sake keep out of mischief! Remember I’m responsible to both your mammas, you young rips.”
Uncle Hugh added, “Have a ride on Volk’s electric railway —that’s a family institution—but don’t try any tricks, like touching the live rail with wet sea-weed! I tried it once, remember, Charley? I thought my blasted arm was broken.”
“Au revoir, Uncle Charley. Au revoir, Uncle Hugh.”
*
On the way to the Aquarium, Gerry opened his palm, and showed Phillip—a half-sovereign. They hastened on with visions of sharks, electric eels, seals, porpoises, octopuses; and in the background ice-cream, ginger-pop, Brighton rock, and fried fish and chips for lunch, or failing that pease-pudding and bacon. Both sorts were tasty and cheap, said Gerry, and the advantages of saving on lunch meant more cash for other things. How about a sail in the Skylark, for instance?
Gerry quoted the old familiar rhyme.
Any more for the Skylark?
A shilling round the Bay
Any more for the Skylark?
If you don’t come back, don’t pay!
“Couldn’t we buy some lines, and spin for mackerel as we sail, Gerry?”
“I don’t know, ask me!”
“Oh, be serious for once!”
“Course we can! Only there isn’t much time. Here’s the Aquarium. Hi Cockalorum, isn’t this a ripping day?”
There was nine-and-eight change from the half sovereign; and this pocketed, they entered a long underground gloomy hall of green plates of glass enclosing on each side misty sea-water in which languid shapes moved slowly, or rested on sand and rock behind bubbling streams of air. They passed dogfish, cuttlefish, rays, skates, wrasse, pollock, cod, turbot; paused to admire the delicate sea-horses, like rusty curls of iron-work moved by whirring propellers; then on to the crabs, lobsters, eels, octopuses—from window to window they went, saying that they would like to stab that ugly brute, smash the other’s fearful face, shoot the shark between the cruel button eyes.
“I say, Gerry, let’s go to a shooting gallery. I’d give anything to fire off a revolver!”
“There’s one on the West Pier, where we’re going this afternoon. Have you had enough? This way out. How about a ride on the electric railway? The tide’s in, and swoosh! we may be drenched!”
“Ripping! Let’s buy some fishing tackle, too, and fish off the groins.”
“They’re dangerous, and you can’t swim yet. The waves sweep over them, and suck you under.”
Phillip had tried to learn in the Randiswell Baths, which had white tiles, which often showed the dirt on the bottom, at least in the second class; but he had been too afraid of the water, and of being ducked by roughs. Now, with his new sense of freedom, he thought that if he made himself swim when in the water, he would be able to keep up all right; for he knew the strokes.
“There are two quays, sort of, over the sewers, with walls, we can fish from them. One is just by the West Pier. We’ll have a go early afternoon.”
The ride on Volk’s electric railway was exciting. They sat in front, by the driver. The tide was in, and waves slapped against the wall of the esplanade, throwing up water, spume, and shingle. The glass windows were crusted with salt, where they were not being wetted anew. Blue flashes and trails of sparks came off the live-rail; they could smell ozone. They went all the way to Black Rock, then returned.
Seeing a man with a white barrow selling ices, they dashed away through the turnstiles to secure large vanilla cornets; and licking these appreciatively, decided to see what was interesting down below, where nets were spread to dry, and tarred fishing boats with brown sails drying were drawn up by windlass out of the rearing plunge of waves, beyond the snarl of brown shingle. This was the fish market. Passing through it, some boxes of fish laid on planks decided them to try their luck as soon as possible.
They went into the smaller streets across the promenade to seek a tackle shop. There they passed an oyster bar, and saw, through the wide glass window, the uncles sitting at a table, a bottle of wine between them. They hurried past, lest they be called in, and asked to account for the change so far.
“How about going to the Bioscope?” suggested Gerry. “Though we can see the flicks at home anytime. I’ll tell you what, Ralph told me there’s a place where you can see waxworks, absolutely lifelike, girls nearly naked, breathing and smiling and their eyes turn and look at you. It’s here somewhere, run by a Frenchman.”
“All right,” said Phillip, feeling very daring.
A tackle shop, however, changed their thoughts. There were rods, reels, paternosters with gimp wire and leads, baskets, folding canvas seats, and a whole cardboard of Redditch sample hooks, from tiny sneck bends to huge swivelled co
nger hooks six inches long. Phillip could hardly wait to buy some; but there were too many in boxes on the counter, too many kinds of line, in all colours, plaited, twisted, and woven, hemp, hunk, and cord, to choose from. In the end they bought two plain winders, already assembled with spreaders, gut, hooks, and leads. These cost sixpence each. Worms could be bought a penny the tin, from men down by the fish-market.
When they had bought the bait—purple-red, hairy lugworms with thin green tails—they wandered about the High Street, staring at motorcars and noting their makes and numbers; and feeling hungry, decided it was time to have dinner. They must not spend much time eating now, said Gerry, but save up for a big tea on the pier. Also fish came in to feed on the high tide, which was the best time to try and catch them. He bought a packet of Ogden’s Tabs, to keep them going between bites, he said. With these in his pocket, hidden from any slop they might encounter, they sought a restaurant.
Finally they stopped by one which had all sorts of shell-fish in the window, which was curved, and had gold lettering on it. Behind the glass were lobsters, crabs, smoked salmon, with prawns and escallops, all among sea-weed. The lobsters were blue, and their claws tied with string. Some moved red feelers.
“They boil the feelers first, to prevent them knowing what’s to come, I suppose,” said Phillip. “Ugh, I don’t think I’d like to eat any.”
“The feelers are red when they come out of the sea,” replied Gerry. “That’s what most people don’t know. Can you tell me what author made a famous blunder over the lobster?”
“Doctor Watson?” ventured Phillip.
“He was a detective, not an author! No, I am wrong! Sorry! Of course Watson told the Sherlock Holmes stories, so he was the author. No, it was Victor Hugo. Gran’pa told me. Victor Hugo wrote that the lobster was ‘the cardinal of the sea’. A cardinal is a sort of Catholic bishop, and wears all red. Get the idea?”
Phillip was puzzled. “A lobster has no religion,” he guessed.
“Go to the bottom of the class, young Phillip. The lobster is blue until it is boiled, so Victor Hugo was caught bending. You can always catch people over that fact. I caught our English master in the end-of-term general knowledge questions yesterday with it. So you owe me a tanner.”
“But we didn’t bet!”
“Oh, sorry. Have a fag instead.”
Gerry took out his packet of Tabs and offered it to Phillip. Greatly daring, Phillip took one. Calmly Gerry offered him a light, before lighting his own; then opening the door, he walked into the restaurant.
Phillip hid his cigarette as he followed Gerry, overcome with awe of such a rich-looking place. There were men in evening dress serving people at the tables. Wine glasses were on the tables, with flowers. A fat dark man with greasy locks and buffalo-horn moustaches, and waving fat be-ringed hands, came bouncing towards them. Staring round-eyed at the winders in their hands, and the tin of lug-worms, he demanded what they wanted.
“Fried fish and chip potatoes, if you’ve got it,” said Gerry, with a grin, puffing his cigarette.
“This is Fattorini! Into the next street, please you go, right away!”
With a flutter of be-ringed fingers the fat man led them to the door.
“Now you a-go to Sam Isaacs’ for feesh an’ cheeps, never to Fattorini!”
“Keep your hair on,” said Gerry; but Phillip almost ran before the black-eyed figure. Then hearing Uncle Charley’s laugh, he glanced over his shoulder to see him sitting at a table with Uncle Hugh, a bottle of wine between them, just as in the oyster bar.
“That’s my uncle,” said Gerry. At once the restaurant owner stopped.
“Many many many pardons, sir, please you-a come-a right-away with me,” he exclaimed, turning without pause on his heel, a sparkling smile on his face. “Many thanks, please come this-way-a-rightaway!”
“It suits me rightaway this-a-way!” said Gerry, and dashing for the door, he and Phillip ran through, no longer able to keep back their laughter.
“Golly,” said Gerry, “that was a close shave! Did you see Roly-poly’s eyes pop out when he saw the lugworms? I thought he was going to explode! What a name, Fattorini! Just suits him!”
“Do you think they saw the fags?”
“No, they didn’t spot us. They wouldn’t split if they did. Here, this place is more our mark, young Phil.”
They looked into a window with a big ham in a pink frill surrounded by tomatoes, beside another plate holding a baron of beef. There were oblongs of pressed beef in brown jelly, pies of pork and steak and kidney, cooked sausages of all shapes and sizes.
They entered, and bought two meat pies, a pound of tomatoes, four hard-boiled eggs, some cold sausages, and a packet of beef sandwiches. This, said Gerry, would keep them going until tea.
*
When the uncles met them by the West Pier, Gerry presented Uncle Charley with his catch—an ugly, toad-like fish with big mouth and blue-white belly, saying that it would do for his supper, if fried. Uncle’s laughter rang out, as he exclaimed, “A sting ray!” Phillip’s contribution was a handkerchief tied at the four corners containing an assortment of green crabs, and a small dab.
The turnstiles clicked; they were on the magic pier, the shingle roaring in surf far down below, waves rolling past the iron supports. There was too much on the pier itself to see, to think any more of the waves, however. They ran ahead of the grown-ups, passing the glass-panelled shelter down the middle of the pier, pausing to look at anglers with empty baskets and rods elevated on the railings, some with little bells on their tips to announce a dreamed-on catch of the season.
“Any luck?” asked Gerry, of a solitary fisherman. The man turned away; the question broke into his illusion of being alone in a world of sea and air, away from domesticity and civilisation.
The automatic machines were of every sort, far too many to try in one day, even with unlimited cash. Why were there so many, when so few people were on the pier? It was hard to think where to begin. You could try your strength on two brass handles, trying to make them meet, when your penny would be returned. Or there were football matches behind glass, little metal marionettes worked by levers. A goal on either side earned twopence for the lucky one. If no goal, the pennies dropped into the machine; the game was over, the marionettes rested, painted and still, their duty done—to the proprietor. There were horses to race; silver balls to be shot into penny-back holes; bags of sweets and pink-and-white sugared popcorn to be grabbed by miniature cranes, while clockwork ticked away the seconds allowed during the short penn’orth of time. Dark-eyed gipsies with fingers pointing to revolving coloured disks printed with fortunes, told your own fortune by nodding as the disk stopped. Others shot them out on little printed cards. Gerry’s card said that he had a noble nature which would bring its own reward, but he must beware of a dark woman, whose wiles sought to entangle him, while a fortune awaited his endeavours. Phillip was generous, and inclined to accept others at their own valuation; a life of hazard and adventure lay before him, and romance in which fair hair and blue-eyes were indicated. Phillip was astounded: he put this ticket of fortune with some care in his pocket-book, thinking with elation of Helena Rolls. How could the gipsy have known? Or was it all just spoof? Either way it was the same thing!
They looked into the shooting gallery, and Phillip saw a small revolver on the counter. He hesitated; he needed a plan to nick it; and after asking how much the rifle shots cost—“Seven for thruppence”—his heart quailed; and saying he would come back later, left with Gerry.
The uncles sat on a seat near the end of the pier; Uncle Charley then asked Gerry for the change. Phillip wondered what he would say when he found out they had spent some of the money on winders, as Gerry pulled various coins from his pockets.
“Well, you haven’t spent much,” was all he said, as he examined the money in Gerry’s palm. “Hugh, the younger generation doesn’t know how to enjoy itself, I can see that. Keep those brown things,” said Uncle Charley, as he picked
out the silver from the outstretched palm, and put it in his pocket. “Too early for tea, you boys run away and play and come back in half an hour.”
“He’s decent, isn’t he?” said Phillip. “He never minded about us buying the winders. D’you think he knew?”
“Yes, but he didn’t say anything, being a sport, young Phillip. Let’s go down the steps, under the pier. You can climb about all over the shop down there. Then we’ll go back to the shooting gallery, shall us?”
“Carramba!” cried Phillip, scared at the thought of nicking the revolver. Dare he tell Gerry his plan? Supposing it failed, and he was copped!
They crept down slippery iron steps, past many green circular piles, to a lower sunless level where the most serious of the fishermen stood, some with many rods elevated before them. Not one seemed to have caught even a sting-ray, judging by the empty rush bags. “I bet they’ll go home with some kippers, and swear they caught ’em!” said Gerry.
After climbing about in the underworld, pretending they were in a submarine, they got on deck again, and made for the shooting gallery. It was Phillip’s idea that, while Gerry was occupying the attention of the attendant with a rifle, firing at the balls on jets of water, and the moving targets of ducks, rabbits, and old men’s faces with clay pipes stuck in their mouths, he would nick the revolver on the counter, and hide it among the crabs in his handkerchief. If caught, he could say it had slipped down there without him knowing it. The very idea made him feel faintly sick.
They entered the gallery, and there the revolver was, on the counter as before.
“I’ll have seven shots with the rifle,” said Gerry, while Phillip pretended to be interested in the man dropping little copper cartridges into the magazine with a clicking noise. While he did so, Phillip thought of policemen, himself being led off; and his mouth filled with water. His hands were wet, too; and he imagined his finger-prints all over the revolver. He began to wish that the man had not left it there. Was it a trap, to tempt someone to steal it? He saw Mother’s face, if he was caught. More water ran into his mouth. His hands smelt horribly fishy. Crack crack crack, went Gerry’s rifle. He counted seven shots.
Young Phillip Maddison Page 35
