“‘Blimey,’ I says, ‘whence comes promotion?’ ‘Oh,’ says he, ‘if you shape yourself, in two years’ time you become a vinegar or mustard putter-in.’ ‘Is that the top of the bill?’ I ask him. ‘No,’ says he. ‘The top of the bill, to those who show real talent, is a pickle putter-in. Naturally that takes years and years to understand what kinds of pickles go in what shape of bottles. It’s no accident that Sniggle’s Pickles fit so delightfully in every jar. So snugly, that only with skill can one extract the first pickle, and even that not without a pang of regret—at the disturbing of the layout’.
“Then he goes on to say I’d need at least three references. ‘Yay,’ says I, ‘from the loony bin! Do you think I’d care what style people got their pickles in? The main thing is whether the pickles are good or bad—not the layout. The only pickles we get is a penn’orth at a time, bought at the corner shop, she scoops them out with a wooden spoon, and you’ve got to take your own saucer. Blimey, we fight enough over them—who’s to have the onion and who the cauliflower piece—I don’t know what we should do if they were decorated in a bottle. Pshaw...’! and with that I took my leave.”
“I can see this finding-a-job business is not going to be so cushy,” said Corky.
“Don’t let the old heart sink. What’s this place—Sawker’s Engineering Works? I’ll just pop in, and have a word or two with Mr Sawker.”
This time Ginger was not so long. He staggered out, holding his hands to his ears.
“Oh, Corky, y’oughter have come in there with me. What a place! What a dungeon of din! you never heard anything like it in your whole life!” Ginger’s face was a picture of suffering. “The foreman took me into what he called ‘the shop’. I couldn’t hear a word he said for all the whirring, grinding, and banging that was going on; and all the dust, gloom, and shut-in-ness of the whole place. Men bawling in each other’s ears, and working by electric lights. And the foreman was dead proud of the whole set-up. It might have been the Taj Mahal, or the Leaning Tower of Pisa—the way he looked for me to show wonderment.
“‘What do you think about it?’ he roars at me. I just shook my head: ‘It’s beyond all words,’ I says. ‘I thought you’d think that,’ he says. ‘They all do. It’s an eye-opener, eh?’ ‘Eye-opener!’ I says. ‘It’s a blinking eye-closer, if you ask me. Do you imagine I’d spend six days a week for the rest of my life in a place like this? You can’t talk but you go red in the face, can’t breathe but you get lungfuls of stuffy dust, can’t see but you must have a glaring globe at your elbow! Shut out from the matey sunshine the livelong day! Just to earn enough to fill my stomach and have a Sunday suit! No, sir, not me, not Ginger!’
“‘Go! Go out, son,’ he murmurs at me. ‘You’re breaking my heart.’”
“You shouldn’t go round saying things like that, Ginger,” said Corky, reprovingly. “All you do is to make people feel discontented. It’s like somebody sitting down at the tea-table and remarking they don’t like what you’re eating, when perhaps you don’t like it yourself, but it’s all you have.”
“Don’t lecture,” cut in Ginger. “I suppose I shouldn’t have. But it’ll all come right in the wash. Oh, Corky, see this little place we’re coming to—it’s a horse firm like old Crater’s. Belongs to a bloke by the name of Scrincher. Coo, he ain’t half an artful old cuss. They reckon he’s a proper wheedler. Gets you to do jobs you’d never think of doing, just with the old softsoap and pat on the back. He’s got the biggest collection of old crocks in South London. Buys all these old horses and ponies that are unbid for at auctions, and so gets ’em dead cheap. And they reckon his horses are just about as artful as him. Pooh, I’d never work for a guv’nor like that. That’s him leaning on the far side of the gate, just take a look as we’re passing.”
Ginger suddenly thrust his hands into his pockets, stuck his head back, and began whistling, ‘I’m the man you’ll not meet every day.’ Corky felt at a loss, walking along his normal self.
“Howgo, guv’!” piped Ginger, nudging Corky.
Mr Scrincher did not return the greeting. He gazed at Ginger and seemed to be thinking. Then, a faraway click might have switched in his head, for he stirred slightly, and nodded. Ginger stopped, and pulled Corky to a halt.
“Are you needing any men this morning, guv’?” Ginger risked this in a high, ‘he-can’t-eat-me’ voice.
Mr Scrincher didn’t speak. But a hint of relaxation in his attitude suggested the boys might approach him. Slowly, they did.
His two piggy eyes meditatively weighed up the figures before him. He was a short man. Between fat greasy lips was stuck a pipe turned upside-down—at which Corky stared fascinated—how did the tobacco stay put? He had two podges of flesh that were hands, soaked in flabby comfort at the front pockets of his moleskin trousers: they were too huge, round, and fat, to allow more than the fingers inside. He gave a suck to the pipe, blinked, and finally a hoarse, squeaky sound came out of him:
“Men?”
“Sure. Do you need any carmen, Mr Scrincher?”
Again the long pause. At last:
“Y’ain’t never seen a pair of horses——”
“Huh, yo’ said that well!” exclaimed Ginger. “We ain’t never handled anything else but a pair of horses. That’s so, ain’t it, Corky?”
“Your mate can speak for hisself.”
“Well, I’m not going to say I’ve had as much experience with pairs as Ginger here,” began Corky, loftily. “And I’m not going to make out I’m an old hand—I’m not. But I shouldn’t like anybody to tell me I couldn’t handle a couple of horses——”
“What do you pay, Union rate?” asked Ginger.
“There’s two horses down the stable, you can’t mistake ’em, they’re the only two left in,” Mr Scrincher spoke with effort. “You can both go down, harness one up apiece, an’ bring ’em out here to me.”
“Here goes,” whispered Ginger. “Now for it—follow me.” And down into Mr Scrincher’s stable went the boys. Mr Scrincher rested back on the gate.
“Coo, come and have a look at this one, Ginger! What a size! I never knew a horse looked so big undressed!”
“Blimey, y’oughter see what I got here!” replied Ginger. “It seems like a blinking elephant after being used to Amos. Stand over! Stand over, lad, when I tell you! Chase me up a gum tree, Corky, but ain’t they lumbering beggars comparisoned with a pony?”
“Where do you start?” called Corky.
“I’m having a go with his collar. There’s only one head bigger than this one——”
“What’s that?”
“Birkenhead. I can’t get the blinking thing near it. Come and give us a shove. Never mind, I’ve managed it.”
“How did you do it, Ginger, because I’m in the same boat? Can’t get it next or near his blooming head.”
“Put it on upside-down, then twist it round when you get it over the head. One thing about it, they’re a couple of good-natured blighters. They don’t seem to mind what you do to them. Wow! Ouch! Geroff, you crazy chump! I spoke too soon, Corky; he’s just had a chew at my pants. But no ill-feeling, the way he’s looking at me.”
“What a weight these saddles are—”
“You’re telling me. Blow me, it’s no wonder the old hosses sag a bit in the middle, with this weight on their backs all day!”
“This one of mine has a proper devil-may-care look about him. He doesn’t mind what happens providing I don’t try to budge him.”
“Yay, I reckon they’re a couple of real ‘san-fairy-ann’ hosses—don’t care what comes or goes, so long as it don’t affect them.”
“Same as their old guv’nor, Ginger, they’ve got their feet glued to the ground.”
“Well, I’m nearly ready, I’ve just got to fasten these hames across, tighten his girth strap——”
“Hames? What are hames?” called Corky.
Ginger went round to him. “Lumme, you’re taking the old boy out half-dressed. The hames are the spikes
that stick up over his collar, and keep it in place, as he pulls the load along. Come on, I’ll show you.”
17 Alec and Joe
“I’m warning you! Don’t all crowd the door—
else you’ll show me up!”
AT last the horses were ready. And now the boys felt rather pleased with themselves. At first the animals were reluctant to leave the warm precincts of their stalls, but finally they succumbed to Ginger’s growls and prods, and Corky’s coaxes and strokings, and out of the stable they traipsed.
Mr Scrincher, his pipe still upside-down, surveyed the horses.
“Tighten Alec’s bellyband another hole or two,” he told Corky. “Straighten old Joe’s bridle,” Ginger was told.
“Now come on over here, an’ I’ll give you a hand getting them in the shafts. There’s just the one cart for this pair. Whoa back, Joe, come on old lad, pick your plates up, don’t go sprawling all over the place.” Then Mr Scrincher called over to the boys: “Three links off at the front, two behind. All set? Good. Now let’s see what it all looks like. ...”
He stood back.
“H’mm, I think they’ll do. Now come here, lads, I want to talk with you two.” He rested his fleshy hands one on each young shoulder, and began in husky confidence: “You’ve got two very valuable horses, boys. It’s not any man that would trust them to you; but I’m broadminded, I believe in giving youth a chance in the world—even though I might not be able to pay you full wages. Experience is everything, that’s what I say. Never mind money, give me the man of experience, the man of the world. I’m placing all the trust of my heart in you two lads, and there’s no telling where it’ll end—I mean a job like this.” He peered at the boys, then a crack of emotion broke his voice: “I wouldn’t like you to let me down. ... Promise?”
“Oh, we wouldn’t let you down, Mr Scrincher!”
“You can rely on me where horseflesh is concerned, guv’nor.”—Ginger, of course.
“Thanks, boys,” Mr Scrincher was satisfied. Now he became brisk: “I gotta cracking little job for you. Take hold of these receiving notes, go down to Brewer’s Wharf Quay, and there you’ll pick up a nice little load of wine for Upper Thames Street. Got me? Now I don’t want you to rush the job. I’m not that sort of guv’nor. Take your time—but don’t stop! That’s me, Egbert Scrincher. This is my motto: Never rush a man, but always keep him on the move. I don’t care what you do, so long as you do your work. Don’t dilly-dally by the way—keep going. But whatever happens, don’t take your eyes off these horses for a minute. They’re good workers, not a better pair in London. Only, they’re what you might say, just that bit inclined to be artful. Now don’t break faith with me, boys; you put your trust in Egbert Scrincher and you’ll never look behind. There’s room for the pair of you on that driving seat but only one take the reins. There y’are, all set? Right, off you go!”
“Gee up there!” grunted Ginger, who had grabbed the reins. “Stir yerselves, we got a day’s work in front of us!”
Mr Scrincher nodded approvingly. The horse didn’t budge. “Oooh, it’s do or die this time!” muttered Ginger.
“Geed up! Geed up!”
Not a move. Corky snatched a rein. He gave a tug at Alec.
“G’rr, yu’ couple of idle-backed hacks!” he roared. “Git along there, else I’ll be down an’ give you what for!”
Magic ...! they set off! “That’s one for me!” grinned Corky. And making the most of it he chested himself out, and almost nabbed the other rein. But Ginger was gripping to that. “I wonder why they didn’t move for me?” he sighed.
“Your voice,” said Corky. “Keep singing those blinking love songs, you do, and the old voice must feel it a shame to break——”
“Gaa’aarn!” growled Ginger in his gruffest tone.
But now they were moving from the little side street and into the main road, alive with traffic.
“Oh, what a smashing feeling,” cried Corky. “It’s just like we were on top of the Eiffel Tower!”
“I never dreamt these carman seats were this high up,” laughed Ginger. “Blimey, I feel like ‘master of all I survey.’”
“Look down at those horses’ backs, Ginger! What a picture! A mass of muscle and power!”
“You can bet your life that Ginger’s finished with ponies! Horses for me from now on. You can’t turn the clock back, Corky—all me past is dead behind me. I’m a horseman for the rest of my life!”
Alec and Joe were jogging with a delightful clip-clop along the street. Many eyes were turned on the two boys high up in the carman’s seat.
“What a life!” cried Ginger. “Jig, jog, jig, jog. ... I’m in the height of me glory!”
“Old Solomon in all his splendour must have felt a blinking gravedigger out of work—beside us two!”
“Tell you what, Corky,” said Ginger, “I’ve got to let the old folks at home see me! I can’t stand to feel so important without me old Mum having a share in it. We’ll take this next to the right, Corky, and it’s down there.” He paused. “And speaking as pal to pal, you won’t mind to let me have both reins, will you? They’ll treat me with more respect in future, if they see me in such an exalted position. And I promise, if you spot anybody you know, I’ll let you have my piece of rein. It’s not a matter of showing off, Corky, you know me better than that. I mean, it’s more or less to let people see what you’re capable of.”
Understandingly, Corky handed over his rein, as the huge pair of horses turned down Ginger’s home street.
Oh, with what a powerful slither and noisy clopper did Ginger pull them to a “Whoa back!” outside his front door! The curtains were parted at the side, and faces were peeking out. Casually, Ginger jumped down, after flicking the reins around the brake handle. His young brother came dashing to the door.
“Ooh, wotyer got, Ginger?”
“What yer doing wiv’ two big horses?”
“Where’s little Amos?”
Ginger swept them aside.
“Make way! Gangway there! Have you never seen a pair of horses before? Come on, Corky, let’s have a spot of grub, if there’s any going.”
Corky followed Ginger. His mother was wiping her face on a towel. She’d been having a wash after polishing the fireplace.
“Ginger! What are you doing with that pair?” she asked, apprehensively. “You haven’t taken them from somewhere?”
“Taken them from somewhere,” repeated Ginger, sarcastically. “What do you think, Mum—that people leave horses like that lying about? Have you a biting-on, please? Look, Corky’s come with me.”
“Oh, hello, Corky love. How are you? You are getting a size, I’d hardly know you. Meet my brother Henry, Ginger’s uncle.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Corky, and shook hands.
“Now tell us all about it,” began Ginger’s mother.
“There ain’t nothing to tell. We packed in at Crater’s, and we took a new job on, that’s all. Now what about some toast, and a cup of char?”
“Nice pair of shires you’ve got out there,” said Uncle Henry appreciatively.
“I suppose you might do worse,” said Ginger. “No doubt, they’re a well-drawn pair. And pull! talk about pull! Blimey, you can’t hold ’em back——”
“—Once they get started,” Corky added, significantly.
“Put plenty of sugar in Corky’s tea, Mum,” Ginger called, sort of changing the subject, but adding, “—then he’ll not be able to taste the arsenic.”
Ginger spoke ‘horseflesh’ at some length over the tea and toast. At times Corky could hardly recognize the voice as Ginger’s, for he appeared to have dug out a complete carman’s phraseology. He went on in rather husky tones, about his horses being “A well drawn pair—you knows wot I mean, a couple that ain’t jibbers, they don’t mind get’n down to a stretch of the old collar work—they got ‘earts like bloomin’ lions, they ’ave. Takes a twenty-six collar does old Joe. And if you take a peep at his old fetlocks you’ll see he
’s got as nice a feather on him as you’d meet in a day’s walk.”
And when it was time to be going, Ginger came out of the kitchen wearing a huge leather belt. “Just lost a button off my trousers,” he added by the way of explanation, “and I ain’t got time to let you sew it on. That’s why I’ve got my dad’s old army belt on.”
“Wot you doing with that silk handkerchief around your neck?” asked his mother.
“I fancy my throat’s a bit rusty, sort of precaution, see? Come on, Corky, let’s get cracking——” he whispered: “It’s no use us being pair-horse drivers if we look like pony lads. I’ve got another belt in my pocket for you, Corky, an’ a piece of silk to tie around your neck.” He turned to the family: “I’m warning you! Don’t all crowd the door—else you’ll show me up!”
Ginger climbed majestically to the driving seat, allowing just a squeeze-in for Corky. Then he took the reins, gave a couple of warning tugs to them, and flung out the most raucous Billingsgate growl:
“Gur’r ...! Geed on, there ...! Gid up, and ged on ...!”
Corky was astonished at the gruff tones Ginger produced. And so were Joe and Alec—off they pulled like a couple of two-year-olds! Corky took a glimpse back, to wave a farewell to Ginger’s family. There wasn’t a one at the door, but seven faces were flattened against the windows.
Now they were moving, Ginger rang his voice to the sky:
“Come on, me old beauties! Step up there, you’re a lovely pair!
There was a great cheer from back up the street. The family had burst out, and all Ginger’s brothers were rending the air with yells of excitement and pride.
“The blooming mugs!” hissed Ginger. “I’ll not half rattle their lugs when I get home. Show a chap up they do.”
“Would you mind moving back a bit?” suggested Corky. We’ll be passing my school in a few minutes, and I want all my old pals to see me driving. Give us that belt, and the piece of silk for round my neck.”
“Don’t overdo it,” said Ginger. “Try to look casual like me.”
“Casual!” cried Corky. “Like you? Why, you might be sitting on top of the Lord Mayor’s coach the fashion you got your eyes poking out of your head. They’re sticking out like a couple of organ stops—mind you don’t lose ’em. An’ your face is redder’n a turkey cock!”
Pony Boy Page 11