Corky had not seen such ‘horsey’ blokes in all his days. Every single one of them had a face like a horse. Those with long doleful faces had the cut of poor, ancient carthorses. The little, well-fed, unbrushed blokes had the appearance of farm horses. The better dressed ones looked like funeral horses. Corky looked up at Mr Crater—a face like a mule. Bill Posk resembled a clown horse in a circus. The auctioneer, ah ... he was rather like some awful home-made wooden horse. Corky turned: just outside the gate a porter had stopped a handcart with a huge mirror trussed straight up on it. In it Corky spotted a boy who was the dead spit of some foolish young foal—a face with the absurd wonderment of a baby horse. And in a shudder of realization he recognized a familiarity—it was himself: “Gawd ’elp me ...!” he groaned.
The auctioneer went on offering horses, until they were all sold, and then came the ponies.
“Keep your eyes skinned for any you fancy,” Bill Posk whispered to Corky. “The guv’nor intends buying if a good ’un is put up.”
In they came, one by one, some scraggy, others dopey, many old, others frisky, some with very sad eyes, and most of them behaving like shy children. Corky felt very sorry for every one. It didn’t seem right to haggle over ponies. And if Corky could have had his way, Mr Crater would have bought each one, at a fabulous price, just to save its feelings. But Mr Crater didn’t buy. He pulled a disgusted face, more and more so, as each one came in. Corky’s harrowed feelings were suddenly flung off by the appearance of a dandy little pony that came proudly into the ring:
“Oh, what a beauty! what a lovely——” he was interrupted by a sharp dig in the back. Corky looked around, got a scowl from Bill Posk. Then he glanced at Mr Crater’s face. The guv’nor appeared more disgusted than ever. Rather contemptuously he glanced into the pony’s mouth, and carefully examined its teeth.
“What’s that for?” Corky asked.
“He can tell its age by the colour of its teeth,” replied Bill Posk. “Sometimes they file them, but you can’t trick the guv’nor.”
Mr Crater shook his head deprecatingly, and Corky’s heart dropped. Then Mr Crater stuck his fingers into the shiny coat and rubbed. Next he tinkered around the fetlocks.
“What’s that for?” asked Corky.
“It might be lame, it shows when worked, the spavin might be dickey,” explained Bill Posk.
Now the guv’nor was slapping the pony under her belly, the whole time muttering sadly at the state the animal was in. Corky felt he wanted to do the same to him. Such an ugly, podgy man he was, beside the beautiful pony; and messing and mauling it in a disgraceful fashion. He’d just love to give Mr Crater a swipe right in his tum—see how he’d like that!
Mr Crater took not the slightest interest in the bidding for this pony. He picked his teeth with a matchstick, and looked across the ring at nothing in particular. It was just when the auctioneer was picking up his mallet for the “Going, going, for twenty-five guineas...” that Mr Crater casually said:
“Twenty-six.”
“I’ve a bid for twenty-six guineas—who’ll make it twenty-seven?”
“Twenty-seven,” a voice spoke out.
“Twenty-eight,” from Mr Crater.
Bill Posk whispered to Corky: “The guv’s off now! He won’t give up if it goes to a thousand guineas!”
“Twenty-nine,” the voice.
“Thirty-two,” Mr Crater.
Bill Posk lowered his head:
“See that trick, Corky?” he murmured. “The guv’ jumped up three guineas just to frighten the other bidder off. It could have gone up to forty guineas if they went one at a time. That’s done it, I reckon.”
And it had. The auctioneer brought his mallet down—“To the gentleman over there!”
“Here y’are, son,” said Mr Crater, “you take it along. Get used to it.”
Excitedly Corky took the halter rope. “Oh, what a beauty,” he murmured. Bill Posk followed on, and Mr Crater came after paying the auctioneer.
“She’s a grand pony, eh?” said Bill.
“A smasher,” agreed Mr. Crater.
“But I thought you didn’t fancy her?” exclaimed Corky.
Mr Crater gave a cute grin: “You gotta be crafty in this world, son. If the owner, or one of his mates, had spotted me being interested in the bidding, they’d have thrown a few mock bids in themselves, see, just to keep the price up.”
It struck Corky that men were no different from boys, except they were more crafty.
“Oh, ho, lass, you are a pretty pony—and an expensive one,” called out Mr Crater. “By the way, what are we going to call her, Corky? Can you think of a name?”
“We should be able to find a nice one,” said Corky. “She’s such a prim——”
“That’s it,” decided Mr Crater. “Prim—we’ll call her Prim.”
With ears cocked, and lifting her graceful hooves, Prim went proudly along the streets.
They arrived happily at the stables, and Mr Crater told Corky: “Have your dinner, son, then harness Prim up, and take her for an outing in the little cart, to see how she shapes.”
Corky hardly tasted his stew, he was so excited. And he gave himself hiccoughs from gulping a full bottle of bubbly ginger ale in two go’s. Before the two men had got their after-dinner pipes smoking, Corky was trotting Prim out of the stables.
She behaved like an absolute lady. A touch of the reins and she was off. The merest twitch back and she came to a halt. And taking corners it was simply a matter of flicking the right or left rein, and she knew which way to go. Corky had a lovely time. He gave a bunch of kids a lift to school. Stopped to help an old lady who was leaving the coalyard with a bag of coal, when a wheel had dropped off her pram. Between them they lifted the heavy bag and the pram on Corky’s cart. And he rode her home. Then he fixed a nail in the pram axle and fastened the wheel for further service. Later, he came across a little man carrying a big Labrador retriever. Its front leg had been run over by a coke lorry, and the man had been having it set and bandaged at the vet’s. “Rest it on the back here,” said Corky. “You jump up and hold it, tell me where you live, and I’ll run you there.”
“I’ve got the proper Good Samaritan mood on me,” Corky sang to himself as Prim skipped along the streets back to the stables. “Coo, I wish I’d nothing else to do for a living but go round with my little Prim and help people out of trouble.”
He turned a “thumbs-up” sign to Mr Crater and Bill Posk as he swung into the yard.
“She’s a peach, guv’nor,” he called out. “A beautiful mouth she has and trained like a lady-in-waiting. Never does the wrong thing.”
“Good, good,” said Mr Crater. “Corky, she’s yours. Keep your eye on her. And take care of her.”
“Never allow her to drink from these street troughs, where they change the water once a month,” said Bill Posk.
“Always give her a nice fresh bucket. Keep her spotless and see she learns good manners.”
“Sh, sh, don’t let her hear you,” Corky put up a warning finger. “Leave it to me, Bill,” he winked.
12 The Race
“Danger! Watch out!” screeched Ginger.
“Here comes twenty-two ton of iron—don’t
argue with it!”
CORKY brought an arm across his forehead to wipe the sweat, and then surveyed the harness he had so diligently laboured on. The leather was a shining black, and the brass fasteners shot golden gleams in the gloomy stables. Satisfied with them, he next turned to Prim. She had been thoroughly brushed, so taking a soft piece of silk from his pocket, he began to stroke it lightly over her. Soon her already glossy coat took on a delightful sheen. Now most carefully, Corky put the harness on her. He rested back against the mangers to gaze in pride and pleasure on his pony.
“M’mmm ...!” he crooned pleasurably.
“Pride goeth before the fall. ...” Corky started as a mournful voice spoke its warning. He glimpsed a ginger head peeping over the side of the stall.
&
nbsp; “Silly chump! I didn’t know who it was for the moment!” said Corky. “Well, Ginger, how do you think she looks?”
“A bloomin’ picture! Straight up she do, mate, an’ no kidding!” Ginger ungrudgingly gave praise to what he saw.
Prim danced delicately by as Mr Crater and Bill Posk feasted eyes on her. She kept in place with the line of carts, but, where the other ponies just trudged along, she fairly jigged. Corky felt horribly pleased with his little self. And distressingly self-conscious, so that he had to pretend there was a loose piece of skin on his palm which needed attention, and then an imaginary speck of dust in his eye, next his shoe lace, and biting his lip the whole time he was, till it almost bled. That moment he wouldn’t wish to be anyone in the world but Corky Corcoran, and to be in no position but the one he was. At the same time he wished himself a pygmy a million miles away in some impenetrable forest. Odd, but that’s just how it was.
Around the corner, Prim was startled by the immediate mad gallop of the other ponies. She didn’t expect it. She was left behind. Then stood Corky on the shafts. Then did he fling his head back:
“Gee up! Gid up there, Prim!” he yelled in the fresh morning air. “Come on, old gal, show ’em how to pick their feet up!”
That was enough for Prim. She simply tore on. It was a matter of seconds and she was catching up to the two rear ponies. And then past them she flashed. Next she overtook the one in between. Ahead three ponies belted on abreast, taking up most of the road. Prim flung herself after them. Her driver not knowing whether he was on the shafts, or in the air. His heart batting away in his mouth.
The road was clear. There was just room for another cart to fit itself in on the far side. Ginger, the cunning blighter, was right on the near side, where he had the least distance to travel on the slightly winding road. Corky touched Prim over to the far off-side. She knew what was wanted. In she went, and took her place in the careering mob of ponies speeding along the whole road.
“Uree!” yelled Corky. “Make way for Ben Hur!”
“Yo ho!” sang Alfie Green. “I’m Buffalo Bill ... look out!”
Ginger haloo’ed: “Yaroo! Mick Durkin’s ride to Cork!”
And now the four drivers drove their craziest. And four ponies galloped their fiercest. And on they dashed, neck and neck, when suddenly—suddenly without warning, a huge tramcar clanged round the far bend and came sailing blindly towards them! ...
“Danger! Watch out!” screeched Ginger. “Here comes twenty-two ton of iron—don’t argue with it!”
With that he gave an impassioned shriek to Amos:
“Crack on, old boy!” And Amos responded. He drew ahead, and the pony alongside drew behind into his tracks. But Alfie Green was attempting to cut ahead of Corky. And Corky wouldn’t give in! And the tram driver wouldn’t either. He kept coming.
“Prim, oh, Prim,” Corky cried, hoarse in his fear and agony of thrills. “Please do something!”
And Prim did. She answered with a super turn of speed that sped her clear of Satan, and Alfie could now turn his pony to safety. The tramcar lurched through—the startled driver hurling abuse at the boys. And on Prim went, now alongside Amos.
Here was a struggle. Each driver, each pony in dead earnest. Prim drew level, despite the fierce striving of Amos to keep ahead. For a short while it was a neck-and-neck struggle. Then came an instant when Corky felt a further energy rising in Prim. She was going into the lead. He could sense it. Ginger was doing everything he knew. Amos frenzied in speed. But it was no use. Corky could feel that bit of reserve coming out of Prim. That superior spurt Nature hands to her young. She was forging ahead. He turned an eye sideways. He saw the familiar back of Amos. He saw the frantic set of the old head, straining and tearing to get in front. And suddenly Corky realized he couldn’t do it ...! No, he just could not humble that old pony’s heart. Much as he wanted to win, much as he would have loved to give Prim the pleasure of beating all—he just couldn’t do it. No, not to old Amos. So, very gently he pulled the rein in. And Prim was taken a little out of her stride. Amos drew slightly up, and in front. And led to the corner, swung round, and was the first at Maggie’s café.
Ginger looked queerly at Corky as they drew in. He was rubbing old Amos’s nose, and whispering to him but he just spoke one understanding word: “Thanks, Corky.”
Prim was a little nettled with Corky. She was steaming a little but not so much as Amos.
“Who won? Who won?” the boys asked, when drawing up.
“Amos just managed to make it,” Corky said quietly. He followed them into the café. Vaguely perturbed he was, that somehow he had not done the right thing. But he wasn’t ashamed. A mistake of sentiment—he would know better as he grew older.
13 Scene at Piccadilly Circus
Corky felt himself as a figure from one of his
own mad dreams.
AT Maggie’s Corky could not give his mind to his kippers. You must relax to get the best out of a kipper, and Corky could not, but he had to be dodging to the door each mouthful to see if Prim was all right.
Her behaviour was impeccable. Perhaps she wasn’t quite so sociable as Amos. She gave one the impression of a rather superior, and certainly a self-sufficient sort of pony. Amos was different. He was the kind of pony that, supposing ponies could cross their legs comfortably in front, would certainly cross his; and hands in pockets—that is if ponies wore trousers. And he wouldn’t be beyond picking up a nice large cigarette-end out of the gutter, if he felt like a smoke, and saying, “Wotcher, mate!” to any passing pony. But not Prim. She would always be polite and well-mannered: but matey? Never!
However, when Corky got out to her she was very sweet over taking the lumps of sugar from his hand. The jam tart too, she enjoyed. But when Ginger offered her a piece of bread and dripping, she permitted herself the merest sniff, and turned away.
Corky was relieved to be off. He drove his pony proudly and happily along Jamaica Road to the warehouse.
“Now go very careful,” said the packer as he put the last of four crates of china on. “You got some very fine stuff in these crates. Some pieces of rare china delph.”
“Leave it us,” said Corky. “They’re as safe as in the Bank of England strongroom.”
Prim had an unusually quick walking pace. Off they set, cut along Abbey Street, Long Lane, down by the Borough to St George’s Circus, and along Waterloo Road, over the bridge and down the Strand.
It was so pleasant jogging smartly along by Trafalgar Square. The morning sun was out and shining, the streets nicely peopled, everyone getting about his business, and the jolly old pigeons having a quiet time, between the occasional flaps round Nelson’s Column.
Soon they were cantering up Lower Regent Street to Piccadilly Circus. Corky wasn’t a hundred per cent sure of himself, but nearly. They’d very nasty horns, some of those big cars that barked savagely at your tail, or made unexpectedly fierce moans as they glided alongside you. And those tykes of taxi-drivers were just about unbearable, taking the mike out of you at every spit and turn. It was a persistent battle holding your own in London’s traffic.
But oh, how jolly it all was, once you let yourself get carried away, and swung into the throng as daring as the next. And Prim was a beaut! Not scared of a thing. And a take-off quicker than a trolley bus. Why didn’t these business men chuck up their jobs, sell their cars, buy themselves a pony each, and become pony boys? The best little life in the world!
Prim was touched up for a spurt as they neared Piccadilly Circus, with the traffic signals at green. She obliged beautifully, but the amber light just pipped her. They halted. She was there, poised at the head of a waiting line of traffic stretching back along Lower Regent Street, ready for off the instant the red light should blink. A one-eyed taxi-driver had nudged in alongside, Corky watched his single orb gleaming in crafty intent to cut in ahead, and resolved he and Prim would show him. They had first place, they’d be first away.
Tense, waiting moments. Some
where a street organ struck up with the Skaters’ Waltz. Prim cocked her ears. A sudden shiver of some old delight racing through her. The caution light flicked to amber. In the second’s hesitation for the green go—she leapt! Corky thrilled to the impact of the music’s sprightly lilt—and Prim’s lightning dash under him. He let out a joyous yell. The taxi-driver was left standing.
Corky twitched the rein for a left turn.
Prim galloped off to the right!
For a moment he was stunned. Prim was careering round in a wide circle. Head high, neck arched, skimming the radiators of the sharply-halted traffic.
Corky tugged frantically at the reins. Yet gayer and faster she went—round and round, as though she were in a real circus.
Corky pulled back harder than ever, screeched, “Whoa!... Whoa!...”
Prim was unfeeling and unhearing. She bounded wildly in her orbit—a circled mass of pressing vehicles. Unappalled by the curses, tonks, and yells hurled at her, she ripped forward.
Bits of traffic, a bike, a baker’s van, dodged her, nipping up Shaftesbury Avenue. The main traffic lines headed by a number 12 bus, a coke lorry, a 53 bus, and a brewer’s dray—were halted.
Corky felt himself as a figure from one of his own mad dreams. He could hardly hold on at the wild pace. He sensed the great ring of noises around and the myriad faces squashed against the windows of the high red buses, of taxis, of lorries—and the ‘gorblimey’ look of a horse driver.
He felt something slipping from the cart. Moments later there was a crash. Then to his horror, as they neared the spot again he glimpsed a heap of china fragments, blue willow pattern scattered over the road. The awful crunch as the wheels raced through it rasped painfully in Corky’s ears. Yet on and on, in a fast increasing race Prim galloped. A man stood in the way to stop her. Lucky for him he could jump! Another attempted, and she almost went over him. And now a current of good humour seemed to flow through the onlookers. They began to cheer. And there was a loud laugh as another crate went flying in the roadway. And yet another. Oh, and finally the last one ...!
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