“Oh, it’s no use,” groaned the man under the overcoat. “I’ve got to clock on. He’s sure to spot me.”
“Clock on?”
“Yeh, stick my card in a clock.”
“What’s your name?” asked Corky.
“Sam Woodall. No. 3 clock, No. 152 card.”
“It’s as good as done,” said Corky. “They’ll never notice me playing round the clock. Go thy way in peace, Sam.”
They had drawn near the wall, and other workers were moving around the yard. “Thanks, thanks,” he whispered gratefully, and mingled among the throng.
Corky slipped to the gate-keeper’s office. “Just a tick, my mate wants you.” The gate-keeper went to see Ted; Corky made a grab at Sam’s card, stuck it down in the slot of the clock, and with a little ‘ping’ Sam was clocked-on. Then he hurried back to the lorry where Ted had fobbed the gate-keeper off with some inquiry about unloading.
Ginger sighed. “I’d match us against any captain of industry.” He patted Corky patronisingly on the back. “My brains and your brawn, Corky boy, would carry us through the world.”
“Pshaw!” sneered Corky.
Ted backed the lorry into the unloading bay.
“How goes it, my good brother!” called down the crane driver. “Back a bit further, my good friend.”
He hailed Corky:
“Son, my good son, will you tell your driver I could do with him a bit more to the left?”
“Thank you, brother,” he called out, as Ted put the lorry in a better position.
“Relative of yours?” asked Ginger. “He don’t look much like you for a brother.”
“I’m no more his brother than Corky is his son,” said Ted. “He just happens to be in a good humour. You come late tonight when he wants to get away—hear what he calls you then!”
The boys spent an interesting half-hour watching the crane pick up Ted’s load of machinery. Then Ginger discovered that the factory had a canteen and that they could go to it. So they went.
Over breakfast Ted asked them would they like to have a look round Manchester for work, or would they come on to Liverpool with him. They at once agreed to go to Liverpool.
The drive out of Trafford Park was quite interesting.
“I can see Manchester’s the sort of joint,” said Corky, “that you’ve got to be used to before you get anything out of it.”
They were amazed to see docks and ships at such an inland industrial town. They drove over the big bridge and through Salford, and along the dreary stretch of the wide East Lancashire Road.
“What’s that place, Ted—that with the two wheels turning, on top of that doings——?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never seen a coal pit before!”
“Oh, that’s what it is, a coal mine. What’s the wheels turning for?”
“Bringing the cage up. The men get inside down the pit, and it brings ‘em up. Or takes ‘em down. And if the bloke who works it is in a bad temper, he lets ‘em down with a rush. Turns milk into butter it do.”
Ted was tired and the boys did not talk much until they were near Liverpool.
“First time I’ve seen tramcars sailing along the pavement,” declared Ginger.
“It’s a special track they’ve got,” said Ted. “This is Aintree where we are now. Ever heard of the Grand National? They run it just behind there.”
The boys perked up interest as they moved into Liverpool proper.
“This looks a dull sort of place,” said Corky some time later.
“You wouldn’t think so of a Saturday night,” said Ted. “I couldn’t say what it’s like these days, but when I was a kid it was reckoned to be a dead tough spot. And believe me, it was. Talk about the roughs over Whitechapel, Jamaica Road, or Soho—they couldn’t compare with this little place. Scotland Road, that’s the name of it. The Liverpool cops were always reckoned the biggest in the country, but no pair of ‘em ever felt safe around this quarter.
“I lived round here when I was a kid—talk about the fights I used to see. Swiping each other with broken bottles, swinging shillelaghs and slashing faces with the old cut-throat razors.”
“My happy childhood,” said Ginger, “with nobs on.”
“Oh, it used to be exciting,” went on Ted, “but when they got into a real rough house the police were no good. There was only one man could do anything with ‘em.”
“Who was that?”
“Father Dan, that’s what they called him, but his proper name was Canon Lawless. ‘Somebody go for Father Dan!’ they used to say when the old pub was rocking, bottles flying and windows smashing. He was a bloke about six feet six, with rosy cheeks and snow-white hair. Blimey, could he quieten ‘em! If they didn’t listen to his beseechings, he let ‘em have the other—a smack in the eye! Oh, that put ‘em away for the count all right. Yes, I’ll remember old Father Dan to me dying day—blessing the sorry ones with one hand, and sending the toughs to sleep with the other.”
“How did you come to leave Liverpool?” asked Corky.
“I joined the army. It was my old man drove me to it—he’d the heart of a saint and the temper of a devil.”
Ted’s eyes were watching out as they drove along.
“All this part round here I know well. I can see myself a ragged kid, mooching around from pillar to post, not knowing in the least what it was all about.
“Now we’re coming right into Liverpool itself,” said Ted. “On the right’s the Mersey, the good old Mersey. I’ll run you down that way because I’ve another driver to meet near the tunnel.”
“Who’s he?”
“He’s called the ‘shunter’. He takes my lorry over, delivers what’s left of the load, picks up the new load for London, puts the sheeting on, gives a good check up to the whole wagon, engine, oil, spare tyres, an’ everything, and has the whole bag of tricks ready and waiting for me at eight o’clock tonight. Then I drive it back to London.”
“The old lorry don’t get much time off.”
“Only Sundays,” said Ted. “Now I’m going to a little digs along here, over the top of a transport café it is, and I’ll sleep there all day. That is, if one of Tillings’ drivers ain’t there. Old Reg Smith, coo, he do snore! We came to blows about it one day. Fighting in our shirts we was, over Reg’s snoring.”
“No wonder! For it ain’t much of a life—all bed and work.”
“I suppose it ain’t, and a bloke does get stale on it, but you could do worse. I couldn’t stand a job where I had a boss around me all day, that’s me.”
Ted pointed a finger out. “There’s old Charlie waiting for us now.” He turned to the two: “Listen, boys, you go round Liverpool today, go here and go there, see what you can find, see what you can pick up, see if they want any cabin boys. Do yourselves a bit of good.” He hesitated. “But, should it be that you feel like going back south tonight, I’ll be waiting for you along by the Goree Piazzas—you’ll see ‘em down there by the bridge, any Liverpudlian knows where they are. I’ll hang about till half-past eight. Now off with you, good luck, shake hands—lest we don’t meet this evening.”
“I’m afraid we’ll not,” said Corky.
“I’m sure we’ll not,” said Ginger. “We’ll be doing deep sea fishing for shrimps. Think of us, won’t you, Ted?”
“Sure you’re not short of dough?”
“No, we’re all right.”
“You’ve been a toff, and no mistake,” said Ginger.
“Thanks very much,” said Corky.
They were getting down from the cab. “I’ve just a feeling that says I’ll be seeing you tonight,” whispered Ted. “Don’t let pride stand in your way. God speed you. You’ll be just like a couple of rabbits let out of their hutch, you’ll not know which way to turn.”
“Rabbits from a hutch,” snorted Ginger. “We’ll show him—bless his heart.”
27 Ferry Ride and Old Salt
There were two huge stone birds poised high
on the roof of th
e tallest building
GINGER made in front, confidently. “Well take this road Corky, it looks busy, it must lead to the docks.” They had taken a few hearty steps down the road, when suddenly a loud voice was flung at them:
“What game are you on?” The two turned, it was a policeman. “Don’t you know there’s no foot passengers allowed? D’you want to be killed? You’re going into the Mersey Tunnel!”
The startled pair reached the pavement, waited to get their wits together, then they walked on a little way.
“Is that a ship’s funnel?” asked Corky.
“’Course it is. What did you think it was, a straw hat?”
“Let’s make across there, and towards the docks.”
They made across a very wide road, abundant in tramlines, and with many careering trams, and reckless drivers that swerved hastily in unexpected directions.
“London taxi-drivers, pensioned off—Liverpool takes ‘em as tram-drivers,” muttered Corky.
They got to the other side, safe though jarred, and went down a covered-in road to the docks.
There before them moved the Mersey.
Two jolly looking ferry boats were just coming to the landing stage, manned by real sailors in blue jerseys who chewed tobacco, and flung huge thick ropes to their mates at the capstan. The boys watched the gangway drop and the passengers rush off.
Nearby was a tubby transport ferry, with a wide round deck holding many motors and a few big lorries.
In the middle of the river a big boat was at anchor. And
away along the dock was a tremendous liner, with massive high sides, on the top of which little men were darting and shouting, and there was a little fussy man bellowing incoherently through a megaphone.
“The Blue Peter’s fluttering,” remarked Corky. “She must be ready to sail. I wonder where to?”
“The old three thousand mile Atlantic,” said Ginger.
“New York, eh? The harbour, with the tall woman holding out the torch of——”
“I allus like that little shot on the films meself,” cut in Ginger.
“It’s a smashing ship, you know, Ginger. I wonder what it’s called?”
“I wonder how much a week the captain gets? A bargee gets four quid a week.”
“You know, Ginger, this place has got something.”
“Sure, there’s an atmosphere, Corky. No denying that. ‘Course, tain’t like London.”
“It’s not supposed to be. It ain’t like any place—except itself. It ain’t even British, if you follow me, it’s just like some town that has its place in the world.”
“But seeing them on maps, it don’t give you no idea what a town really is. Nothing but a blinking little ink splash. That’s all I thought Liverpool was. A black blob on the map with a million people packed into it, and a thin little line called the Mersey.”
“‘Experience is the best teacher,’” said Corky. “Not to say the hardest.”
Beneath their feet there was a sudden shifting.
“Bump! Did you feel that, Ginger?”
“Sure I did, the ground’s moving under us.” Ginger squeaked.
“I hope to goodness it is,” said a passer-by. “It’s a floating dock and if it doesn’t move up with the high water we’ll all be drowned.”
“What! Right along here, for a half mile or more, all floating?”
“Sure it’s all floating. What d’you think?”
“What holds it up?”
“Same stuff as holds that liner up.”
“All right, all right, mate. Thanks for the information. Save your wit to blow the froth off your ale—it’s lost on us Cockneys, anyway.”
“Look, Ginger, they’re dropping the old gangway on the ferry. How do we get on?”
“Let the herd rush off first.”
When the last passenger had left, Corky and Ginger strolled aboard the Royal Daffodil. It was quite a large boat, about the length of a cricket pitch, or a bit longer, and half as wide, with a good round open deck on top, and a covered saloon below.
“It’s a bit of all right, this is, tell your uncle,” said Corky. “It doesn’t look like they take any money. I expect it’s a free ferry, same as that one across the Thames at Woolwich.”
“Not in the north, you won’t get owt for nowt in this latitude,” remarked Ginger. “Hy, shipmate,” he called to a seaman, “when do we have to copper up for this trip?”
“After leaving the boat at Wallasey. You pay going through the turnstile into the street.”
“Thanks, mate.” Then aside to Corky: “This is going to be a cheap trip, pal; we don’t leave the boat, so we don’t have to pay. I expect those from Wallasey pay coming through the turnstile.”
“They got a nice little lingo here, ain’t they, Ginger?”
“Yeh, I like the swing of it, a bit Irish’y and a bit Welsh’y on top of it.”
“All aboard!” called a man from below. The last passengers darted across the gangway. It was lifted. There was a piping hoot from the ship’s siren, a ting-a-ling of a bell; the ropes began groaning—the boat began turning, a shudder amidships, a ploughing and chowing of the Mersey waters, and they were off, chugging across the river.
Ginger, seeing a chubby little man walking briskly round the deck, stepped out and followed him. Corky leant on the rail, looked down at the foaming water wake, and the endless kissing ripples, and then looked back over Liverpool. There were two huge stone birds poised high on the roof of the tallest building. From the frontage the city seemed to rise backwards like the stands at a football ground. It was good to look at the medley of buildings. There was a new cathedral, quiet and brown. There were a few chimneys, tall ones, and long rows of housetops with smoking homely roofs. Corky liked the look of Liverpool.
He turned to Ginger who had come up beside him. “You know, Ginger, it’s a nice feel coming across the river in a boat. It licks the Thames.”
Ginger considered this.
“It do and it don’t—if you follow me.”
“How do you mean, ‘don’t’?—it’s wider, deeper, and it’s more ocean-like.”
“Yeh, agreed. But it misses one thing.”
“What’s that one thing?”
“A bridge.” Ginger set his eye along the Mersey, taking it all in at one sweeping glance. “It’s my opinion that there’s nothing sets a piece of water off like the old bridge across it.”
“Thass right, Ginger, thass right. I knew there was something, but the mind didn’t hit just what it was.”
“You take the Thames, now what would that be without the bridges? Hammersmith Bridge, you’d just have a sulky swill of water there without that smashing construction. It’s a suspension bridge; have you ever felt how it shakes when you’re rattling across on the old pony and cart?”
“When two or three buses were crossing at the same time!”
“You go up Westminster Cathedral and look out from the old turret there, see Westminster Bridge, Waterloo Bridge, Blackfriars Bridge.”
“I did agree with you, didn’t I?”
“What would the Firth of Forth be without its bridge? Sydney Harbour, the Golden Gate, ‘Frisco, Brooklyn?”
“Turn it in, Ginger,” cut in Corky shortly. “Don’t overdo things. Huh, look at the gulls following.”
“Lumme, they’re bigger’n the ol’ Thames gulls. Ain’t they got funny faces, like old men with long noses.”
“Yeh, and dumpy chests and white weskuts. We’re here at Wallasey. You said we were going to wangle it. How?”
“Ladies and Gentiles, reptiles and crocodiles——” Ginger bowed to the backs of the passengers who were flocking off the boat: “This is where we do the Indian rope trick. Follow me, Corky.”
They went secretly to the lavatories. They heard the passengers’ feet clatter off overhead. There was a pause. Ginger put up a warning finger. “Not yet, Corky. Wait for it.” New footsteps sounded on the deck above. “Right, we can now make our appearance,” said Ginger. Out
they walked and sauntered on the upper deck.
The gangway was lifted, the boat turned to its journey back. Ginger, as bold as brass, took deep long breaths that swelled his lungs as the boat moved pleasantly over the waters. He winked at Corky: “Even fresh air tastes better when you get it for nothing.”
“Ginger, there’s summink about the old deck of a boat under your feet that you don’t get nowhere but on the wooden floor of the deck of a boat.”
“I agree, Corky. I agree with any such statement coming from you.”
They looked over to the liner that was now being drawn to the middle of the river with many little piping tugs, blowing their own trumpets, as they drew the big ship to where the river would be deep enough for her to move on her own power.
“Ain’t it a smashing turn-out! I’ve never seen anything like this before.”
“Give a glance back, Ginger, at the foamy tossing waves.”
“Yeh, and the derricks, jibs and cranes.”
“Just watch how the water foams and slides, one slice slipping under the next, or rolling over.”
“You could look down at the water all day, couldn’t you, Corky?”
“I suppose I could, if we didn’t have jobs to find.”
“Don’t be so eager,” said Ginger, “we could travel this way all day.”
The boat rubbed alongside the landing stage. Corky took Ginger’s arm and forcibly helped him over the gangway.
“It’ll be a very cheap day, Corky, and very good for our health.”
“I agree, Ginger, I agree. And there’s nothing I’d like better than to spend the day sailing, without it costing a penny. But we ain’t come two hundred-odd miles just for that. Now let’s go and see if we can get us jobs on a ship. I’ll go and ask this old bloke at the side here where you must apply. He’s an old salt by the looks of him.”
Corky went and asked the man.
“You could go along to Firth Row,” said the old man, “that’s where the Seamen’s Union is, and ask one of the chaps there.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Corky.
Ginger was looking back to the pleasant open deck of the ferry. “With a bit of luck,” Corky said to him, “you’ll be planted at the helm of one of those tonight.”
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