“I certainly can’t. Why, just listen to that bell, that’s what you’ve to put up with. But I’m not going to answer it till it stops. That’s the sort of fellow I am.”
“Thanks for the advice,” said Corky, “and if you don’t mind I must be off. All the best.”
“Cheerio,” called the boy.
Trudging home Corky was not feeling his usual spry self. For one thing, he was hungry. And for another, he was weary. He decided to go back over London Bridge for a change. It was quite sunny now, and there were many girls and young men and women taking a lunch-time breather from their offices.
It feels pretty good, was Corky’s thought as he lay stomach down over the parapet and watched the steady peaceful waters below. He had a nice lightness come to his heart, and the heaviness went away, even from his feet.
Suddenly a startling clatter sounded on the bridge behind him.
4 Corky Meets Ginger Again
“Glass-backs, if you mentioned manual
labour they’d think you was talking
about a Spaniard!”
CORKY leapt down and looked around. There was a huge leather bale rolling along the road. And disappearing away over the bridge was a pony and cart.
“Hy! You’ve lost summink!” yelled Corky.
But the driver did not hear. So Corky ran after the roll of leather and caught it. Then he turned it over against the kerb, and waited. Five minutes later he saw the pony and cart returning. The figure of the driver scanning the road looked familiar. Corky dashed into the road and waved to him. A small crowd had now gathered to watch.
“Phew, you’ve saved my bacon all right, mate,” he sighed, spotting the bale. “Oh hello, Corky, it’s you!”
“How go, Ginger,” nodded Corky.
“Blimey, there’s a good twenty-five quids’ worth of leather there. Old Crater wouldn’t half have kicked up a shine, wouldn’t he, Amos?”
Corky saw the pony give a head twist in reply.
“I don’t know how we’re going to get it back on. Like to give me a lift? but I warn you, it’s a ton weight, or near enough.”
Corky and the boy got down to lifting the roll, and though it wasn’t a ton weight it was almost too much for the pair of them. The crowd on the pavement had increased.
“You’d think one of them would give us a pound, wouldn’t you?” remarked Ginger, eyeing the pavement crowd with scorn: “Glass-backs, if you mentioned manual labour they’d think you was talking about a Spaniard.”
Again they got to grips with the leather.
“Ready?” cried Ginger. “Let’s have another go ... Up!” Struggling and grunting, they managed at last to get it into the cart.
“Thanks, mate,” said Ginger. “I’ll do the same for you some day. You working round these parts?”
“I’m not working round any parts,” said Corky. “I’ve been looking for a job today but I’ve had no luck.”
“How’d you like this job?”
“Oh, I’d love it!”
“Well, I can’t promise you anything definite, but you come down to Crater’s in the morning. I'll tell you how to get there. Be there dead on half-past seven, an’ I’ll see what I can do for you. That be okay?”
“That’ll be fine,” said Corky. Then Ginger gave him directions. They shook hands. Ginger stood up on the cart, waved good-bye to Corky, called encouragement to Amos, and off he went. Corky turned for home.
5 Corky Makes a Start
Curbing his excitement, Corky strode behind
the barrow in slow, sure majesty.
NEXT morning Corky was stepping along the street towards Mr Crater’s yard. He walked on the opposite side, as though in a hurry, but snatching a glance at one side of the double gate, caught sight of the large painted letters, W. G. CRA, and underneath, REMOV. Both words were cut off short, as the partner piece of gate was new and unpainted.
Corky went by because he had just heard a church clock chime the quarter-hour and he did not want to be too early. He cherished a secret wish to be a model of precise punctuality. If ever he should have an appointment for nine o’clock, he felt sure it would create an impression if he could knock casually on the door as the clock was on the first stroke of the hour. Not the second or third stroke—the ninth would be too late!—the chime too early. Dead on the first stroke—that was Corky’s ambition—that he might come to be spoken of as a man holding some amazing, mysterious arrangement with Father Time. Yes, a figure that should be waited for along the street, by eyes behind curtains, that clocks might be set right on his daily passing along, dead on the same split second—year in, year out. So he went by Mr Crater’s yard at seven-fifteen, not caring to be there fifteen minutes early.
He hadn’t gone a hundred yards before the feeling took him that it must be nearly half-past. He decided to ask the first person that came along.
“What time is it, please?”
“Five-an’-twenty past.”
He’d better be getting back. However, he couldn’t just turn round in the middle of a street, it would look so silly if anyone were watching. Though he might pretend having forgotten something. No, he’d better walk around this small block. He’d ask the time again just a bit further on.
“Could you tell me the time, please?”
“About ten-past seven.”
“Oh, I think it’s gone that,” said Corky. “I heard quarter-past chime a bit back.”
“What the flapping heck you asking for if you know!” the man growled back.
Corky flushed, but thought, I don’t care for him. I’ll never see him again. And I could have kept my mouth shut if I’d wanted to, I was doing him a good turn in my way; and on he went. He’d have to ask somebody else. Supposing it was only ten-past. That fellow said it was. He turned to his left, and decided left again, left again, would bring him back to Mr Crater’s street. He hurried along.
“Any idea of the time, please?”
“Let me see.” He was an elderly man, lighting his cigarette, but the lighter just sparked without producing a flame. “The seven o’clock news was on when I came out. Oh no, it wasn’t, it hadn’t started. Oh, yes it had. I’m wrong there—it was over. Drat these flints you buy these days, they’ve no life in ’em. Oh, the time? Now I’ve just been along for the morning paper, because it’s late when the boy gets round with it. Beggars to play along the streets, these present day paper-boys, you never know what time you’re going to get it. Just let me think back a bit. I went in an’ got the paper, and a packet of cigarette papers. Oh no, I didn’t get fag papers, he was out of them. He reckoned to have some come in next Wednesday. Did I have a chat? No, I didn’t. I couldn’t be sure whether or not the news was over when I left home, or just beginning. Don’t be so eager, son—I want to get it as near as I can. Just let me think for a second or two ... ah, yes, I should say the exact time is somewhere about, or somewhere between half-past seven and quarter to eight.”
At this Corky ran off in panic. He made turnings which he imagined would bring him back into Mr Crater’s street, but instead of Mr Crater’s street he came to a blank wall. He turned and ran back along the way he had come. But now all the streets seemed to have changed appearances. He hadn’t seen that church before. Funny, where was he? And not a soul about. He’d have to ask his way when he saw someone. Ooh, nobody in sight. Why had he been so daft, and his head full of crazy notions to get here dead on time! Oh, there was an old lady. He’d ask her.
“’Taters?” she curled a hand behind her ear, and piped out. “How much a pound are they? King Edward’s or White’s?”
“No, not potatoes!” Corky yelled. “I said, ‘Where’s Crater’s?’ Crater’s?”
“I’m sorry, love, I thought you was selling ’taters. No, I’m afraid I know all the neighbours by sight, but I don’t know their names. What does she look like? Any family?”
“It’s a man. He does removals with ponies.”
“I have a nephew on the same game. He makes a stack of
money out if it, though they say he’s reasonable enough. I believe it’s all profit. Shall I ask my nephew if he’ll do it? in case you don’t find this Crater man?”
It’s no use, thought Corky. It must be after eight now, and there was no point in going for the job. That was after he’d promised Ginger to be there. He was a failure in the world—that was the beginning and end of it. He’d never get a job. He’d have to go back to school. He’d be there when he was an ancient old cove of eighty, sitting at his little hard desk, and long whiskers hanging down, learning the same thing year in year out. They’d all laugh at him, but he wouldn’t mind that. At least, he would be safe. He would know what he was doing—which was more than could be said of his coming out into the world looking for work. A failure, that’s what he was, a ruddy failure.
The old lady, eager to help, had stopped a man who seemed in an awful hurry.
“Just round the corner——” he pointed, “that’s Crater’s. Keeps ponies and ’orses.” He rushed on.
Hope leapt in Corky’s heart. A new flow of blood rushed upward.
“W-what time will it be, please?” he called.
The man drew a watch from his pocket——
“Seven twenty-six,” he shouted back.
Corky just couldn’t believe it. It was wonderful. To think it was only eleven minutes since he had passed that gate! ... The man must have made a mistake—but he’d risk it. Corky turned and thanked the old lady who stood by in an attitude of help. “Remember,” she called, “if he can’t do it come back and see my nephew Willie.”
Corky went around the corner, walked a little way, and saw Crater’s gate ahead. He’d just ask the time once more.
“Not the foggiest!” shouted the youth. Corky felt he ought to give him some idea but decided against it. He went on to the gates. Just as he got there, he saw Ginger looking out. And at that very moment the church clock began to chime the half-hour.
“Hy, glad you got here,” called Ginger. “Had the feeling you weren’t coming, when it got so late.”
“It’s dead on half-past seven,” said Corky.
“I know. But you don’t expect anybody to come at the exact time, do you? They’re either early or late.”
“I wasn’t. I was here on the stroke.”
“Yay, but that was only chance,” said Ginger. And Corky thought, that’s all you know—but said nothing.
“Now old Crater should be along any minute, he’s only slipped home for breakfast,” went on Ginger. “And I want you to wait here, but not to stand with your hands in your pockets. Just take a tip from me: you prowl about like a lion, backward and forward, as though you’re famished for a bit of work. Make out you can hardly keep your hands from tearing the paving stones up, an’ putting ‘em back again—just to fill in a bit of time. Hop about on your toes like a boxer getting ready to wipe his opponent out. And every now and again, that’s when the guv’nor comes and begins to talk to you, drop down to a crouch, like a runner on the line, so that you give him the impression that when he says the words, ‘You can start,’ you’ll go flying into the stables like a tornado—moving all before you. Got me?”
Corky nodded weakly. He felt himself rather inadequate to the filling of such roles as Ginger was instructing him to.
“Above all, carry an air of confidence with you.” To demonstrate Ginger flung back his shoulders, clenched his fists, rose on tip-toes, set his mouth in a ghastly line, and caused his eyes to protrude slightly. “Got me?—first impressions are lasting. And whatever he asks can you do—drive a pony, horse, lorry, or even an aeroplane—you say Yes. And say it like a man.”
“Oh no, I can’t do that,” remonstrated Corky. “It’s not a decent thing to do. There’s no sense in it anyway. Why, if I could be all those things you tell me, old Crater would have to sack himself and give me his job!”
“You don’t know him,” said Ginger, darkly. “You’ve got to work with people to know ’em. I’ve had a lot of experience in this world—I’m going on for sixteen—and I was only trying to pass it on to you. Anyway, they do say ‘you can’t put an old head on young shoulders,’ and I’m inclined to believe it is so. Oh, here’s Bill Posk, the horsekeeper. Take no notice of him. He’s Crater’s right hand man, but he’s got nothing to do with you. He’s in charge of horses not men. Tell him to mind his own business, if he asks you anything. Tell him you want to talk to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Good luck, Corky. If the guv’nor wants a reference send him to me. Hy, hy, Bill!” Ginger called to the horsekeeper, waved to Corky, and ran in the stable door.
“Hello, son,” Bill Posk greeted Corky. He was a jovial man with twinkling eyes. “Are you after a job?”
Corky decided that Ginger’s advice was suited to anyone who could carry it off, but that he would have to behave like his natural self.
“Yes, sir, I am,” he said. “There’s a friend of mine, they call him Ginger, and he said I might come along.”
“Better not tell the boss you’re a pal of his. He’s a good little worker, but it’s more than one firm could stand—two with the sauce he’s got. Oh, here’s old Crater coming along. I’ll have a word with him about you.” He turned to go, then whispered to Corky, “You’ll have to shout up at the top of your voice—he’s as deaf as a door nail!”
Mr Posk met Mr Crater, had a word or two with him, and nodded in Corky’s direction. Meanwhile, Corky was half-attempting the advice Ginger had given him. He seems to have a touch of St Vitus Dance, thought Mr Crater, as he went up to Corky.
“Well, me young shaver,” Mr Crater, a tubby little man shouted into Corky’s ear” I understand you’re after a job?”
“Yes, sir,” bawled Corky into Mr Crater’s ear, “I was wanting to be a pony lad! A pony lad!”
Mr Crater put a finger to his ear, and shook it, as though it were ringing. Then he bellowed:
“Ever handled a pony?”
“No. But I’ll have a good try!” yelled Corky, at the top of his voice.
“You needn’t shout,” roared Mr Crater, rather peevishly. “I ain’t deaf.”
“Nor am I,” declared Corky, a little on edge. “So you needn’t bawl either!”
“But Bill Posk told me you were!”
“And he told me you were, ‘deaf as a door-nail’—those were his very words.”
A loud chuckle broke out across the yard. It was Bill Posk, who’d been listening-in to the scene. Mr Crater laughed. And so did Corky after a moment.
“If I did give you a job you’d have to watch that fellow,” said Mr Crater. “He’s an absolute leg-puller. A regular turn. Fancy, telling us each that the other was deaf. Ah, well, I’ll be getting down the stables.”
“But is there any chance of a job, sir?” asked Corky.
“Are you strong?”
“Yes, sir. I can muscle up a twenty-eight pound weight five times with my right hand, and three with my left.”
“You do look handy. Can you use a long-handled brush?”
“Oh, yes. I can do anything with a long-handled brush.” Corky felt he’d rather overspoken himself with those words, and instantly regretted them.
“Could you swill this yard with water and brush it spotless?”
“Oh, yes, sir, I could do that.”
“But you’re not used to ponies? Are you frightened of ’em?”
“Not a bit——” Corky had to restrain himself from blurting:
“I’m not frightened of man or beast!”
“If I ask you are you honest, I suppose you’ll say Yes?”
“I suppose so,” replied Corky.
“I’d better get in the stables,” said Mr Crater.
“But the job?” Corky was getting desperate.
“Sorry, son, but I can’t think of one to put you to. The fact is, I’ve got rather too many boys as it is.”
Corky’s face fell: “Oh ... well, thanks very much. I’ll be getting along.”
“Naw, don’t go yet, you never know what turns up,”
put in Mr Crater. He went into the stables and Corky was left thinking.
Mr Crater reminded him of Mr Snegg the tailor, whose shop his Uncle Dave had once taken him to to buy themselves suits. He had displayed to them about fifty rolls of cloth, but every time Uncle Dave selected one, Mr Snegg shook his head dolefully. “Won’t wear well.” “A foul colour.” “Inferior weave.” “Wouldn’t put it on a scarecrow”—and so forth, until Uncle Dave asked, “Which one would you recommend?”
“You don’t expect me to recommend my own cloth, do you?” said Mr Snegg. “Self-praise, you know—that’s all very easy.”
“Do you want us to have a suit—or don’t you?” demanded Uncle Dave.
“Of course I do,” said Mr Snegg. “How do you imagine I’d make a living otherwise?”
“Then at least you might be a bit encouraging when I ask you a question about the cloth!”
“You shouldn’t ask questions if you can’t stand truthful answers,” countered Mr Snegg. “And after all, you’re going to wear the suit, not me. You should make your own mind up.”
Uncle Dave had made up his mind. He picked the cloth he had first liked. And they got two very nice suits. And parted the best of friends. But, as Uncle Dave had said, “He wanted a bit of getting used to, an’ when you did get used to him, you’d another job of getting used to yourself again.”
It was the same with Mr Crater. He was a man with whom you could never be sure where you were. Corky started as he heard a voice call out:
“Hy there, ain’t you made a start yet?” It was Mr Crater. “Get hold of that barrow, and bring a spade along with you. I’ll find you a bit of muck shifting.”
Corky dashed for the barrow. Dashed for the spade. And dashed with them to the stables. Mr Crater shook his head:
“Look here, son,” he said, fatherly, “I just can’t stand seeing anybody splutter and rush about. Every lad I’ve sacked—that reason’s been at the bottom of it. Get me nerves all jittery, you do. And I know it’s only a bit of ‘cod’ anyway, because the minute me back’s turned you’re ‘miking’. It’s natural enough, I’ll admit. But you take it easy, and well get just as much done in the long run.”
Pony Boy Page 3