by C. Day Lewis
Operation Glazier in action
At eleven o’clock, the focus of activity moved to the Recreation Ground. This is a rather scruffy sort of public garden, between the station and the Abbey, with a few rusty swings and flea-infested sandpits for kids to play in. You generally get quite a lot of kids and grown-ups there, though, on Saturday mornings. So a troupe of acrobats, led by Peter Butts who is super at gym, appeared and began a routine of tumbling, pyramids, etc., varied by exhibition boxing bouts and ju-jitsu demonstrations. Nearby, a table and two chairs were set up, with a poster saying:
IS YOUR FACE WORTH A SHILLING?
Lightning sketches by Miss E. Toppingham,
RA.
Sixpence only for children under twelve.
Toppy’s sister is not an RA, as it happens. But she’s a smashing artist, and it was sporting of her to take this on, because she’s nearly seventeen. Presently, Charlie Muswell’s concert party arrived and sang several songs, giving the acrobat troupe a rest. Then Peter and Charlie took the hat round.
Miss E. Toppingham, RA
We’d had some argument about this. Obviously a lot of people would ask what we were collecting the money for, and we didn’t think they’d be likely to shell out if we said it was for a broken window. Toppy was in favour of using a real charity – the SPG for instance, which actually means the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, but whose initials could secretly stand for our own charitable object too, i.e. the Society for Paying for the Glass. However, Ted was against this. He said it was too like chizzing, and in any case complications would probably arise later when the real SPG heard about it. It was finally decided that we should say the collections were in aid of the NYAF, meaning the Nick Yates Assistance Fund: and if anyone got nosey, we should tell them it was the National Youth Association Fellowship. This solution of our problem was typical of the British genius for compromise. Ted thought it a bit crook, and voted against. But Toppy pointed out that, if any contributor was such a fool as not to know that there was no such body as the National Youth Association Fellowship, he deserved to lose his money; and anyway, since we were genuinely collecting for a charity, and not for ourselves, it was the spirit of the thing that mattered and we were entitled to practise a little harmless deception for a good cause. Being an eloquent bloke, Toppy won the vote on this. As an impartial historian, I must record my verdict that it was a case of the end justifying the means …
What were Ted and Toppy doing themselves, while the acrobats tumbled and the choir sang and the window-cleaners cleaned? Come with me to the traffic-lights in West Street. On the pavement there is a stool with brushes and tins of polish handy. SHOE-SHINE 3d. Ted and I were operating the brushes in turn. We had a scout on either flank, to give warning if a Copper was coming along, because there’s some law against plying your trade in the street without a licence. We could snatch up our stool and brushes in a moment, and carry them into Ted’s sister’s bookshop, which was only two doors away. But there aren’t many Cops in Otterbury, and we weren’t troubled that morning.
But how comes it that the shoe-shine is doing so brisk a trade on this fine dry summer morning, you are asking. Why, there’s Mr Richards coming down the street, his shoes polished like silver, not a speck of dust on them! He has poshed himself up to call on Ted’s sister, Rose. He pauses a moment in front of her bookshop window, pretending to inspect the display there (but really I bet he’s using it as a looking-glass). He moves on to enter the shop, but happens to glance down. Great Scott! His shoes are dirty! He looks round as if to find the puddle he must have stepped in. No puddle in sight. Most extraordinary. But there’s a shoe-shine stool.
‘Hello, you two, what on earth are you doing?’
‘Shoe-shine threepence, sir.’
‘All right. I seem to need one. But what’s all this about? Are you doing it for a bet?’
‘Will you swear not to tell anyone, sir, if we let you into the secret?’ asked Ted, after a slight pause.
‘Yes, of course. If it’s nothing criminal.’
‘We’re making money to pay for the window Yates broke. The shoe-shine’s only one thing. Other boys are cleaning windows, and we’ve got a choir, and a troupe of acrobats, and –’
‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ exclaimed Rickie. Which shows how startled he was, because he’s not usually addicted to oaths or imprecations in front of his pupils. ‘Hmm. It seems a worthy object. Good luck to you all. Hullo, here’s the Headmaster! I wonder if his shoes need cleaning. I’d advise you to keep your heads down if he does come this way. He mightn’t altogether approve of King’s School boys working as boot-blacks.’
Rickie gave us his threepence, and walked to meet the Headmaster. Not only that. He took old ‘Bellyache’ by the elbow and steered him to the bookshop window. We heard him say, ‘Have you seen this new Naturalist’s series? We ought to have it in the school library.’ And then, ‘Great Scott, sir, you must have stepped in a puddle somewhere! Look at your shoes!’
‘Well! I could have sworn they were clean when I put them on this morning,’ said the Headmaster.
‘I see there’s a shoe-shine stand just there.’
‘Ah, yes. To be sure there is. Much obliged to you, Richards. Yes, by all means order those books for the library.’
And old ‘Bellyache’ came up and placed one of his trotters on the stool, and I kept my head well down as I polished, and he never noticed who it was.
Rickie had given us something like a wink, as he directed the Headmaster to our shoe-shine stool. There are no flies on Rickie. I’m pretty sure he’d spotted how his own shoes got dirty, and deliberately brought the Headmaster to stand in front of the window. You see, the bookshop has a basement, with a grating which opens on the street just at the level of your ankles. Toppy and another chap were standing on a table in the basement; they had a pail of muddy water beside them, and one of those Flit guns loaded with it. Whenever anyone stopped in front of the window, they sprayed his shoes with the dirty water, through the grating. It was a wizard scheme; and pretty well foolproof, because, in the noise of traffic at the cross-roads, our victims could never hear the hiss of the Flit gun – and in any case the sort of people who stare in at bookshop windows are much too absorbed to notice even if someone falls down dead at their feet …
The Flit-gun crew
At midday some other boys relieved us on the shoe-shine stand. Ted, Toppy and I walked around to see how the other parties were doing. Toppy’s kid sister (not the artist one) tagged on, which was rather a bore at first but turned out a godsend. It happened like this. We were strolling through the market place. Otterbury’s market day is Thursday: but there are a few stalls and cheap-jacks there all through the week. Well, we noticed one chap trying to sell those curling-tong contraptions which girls use for their hair. I suppose his partner must have gone off for a drink. He must have had a partner, anyway, because he himself was totally futile at selling things – the reason being that he had a stammer like an engine missing on three cylinders.
‘Bub-bub-bub-bub-buy a s-s-s-s-set a-whoo a-whoo a-whoo cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc-cuc urling tongs,’ he bellowed. ‘Gug-gug-gug-gug-guaranteed to gug-gug-gug –’ etc., etc.
Well, naturally you can’t do a roaring trade like that. Suddenly Toppy ducked through the handful of people at this stall, dragging his kid sister after him, and emerged behind the counter. The cheap-jack fellow’s voice conked out altogether, so startled was he by this intrusion. Toppy lifted his sister up on to the counter (I should have said, she’s got a head of beeyootiful golden curls, which she’s apt to toss at you in the way women do). Then Toppy seized a pair of curling-tongs, jumped up beside her, and started an incredible flow of patter.
‘Ladies and gentlemen! I have here the wonder of the age, Colley’s Guaranteed Quick-Curl! Going at a great sacrifice! For one day only, one day only! Half a dollar a set, only half a dollar! All the rage in London and Paris! Ladies, one application of Colley’s Quick-Curl Hair-Beautifier a
nd you won’t know yourselves! Look at this young lady here! Never uses any other. Do you, Madam?’ He gave his kid sister a pinch on the bottom. ‘Do you, Madam?’ ‘No,’ she yelped; then tossed her curls and began simpering at the audience in a revolting manner. ‘What an advertisement for Colley’s Quick-Curl! Absolutely genuine, ladies and gents, ab-so-lutely genuine!’ Toppy gave her curls a smart yank just to show they weren’t a wig. ‘Now then, who will be the first to take advantage of this staggering offer? What about you, sir?’ Toppy pointed at a rustic who was gawping in the front row. ‘Give your young lady a Colley’s Quick-Curl and she’ll be at the altar with you tomorrow! Come along, sir, don’t be shy! Nothing venture, nothing win! Half a crown, and the girl is yours!’
And by gum the rustic did step up, his face the colour of beetroot, and put down his money. Toppy muttered something in the cheap-jack’s ear – no doubt he was bargaining what percentage of the profits he should get – and the cheap-jack nodded, and Toppy was off again on his patter. The crowd round the stall was increasing every minute, and obviously in great good humour now, and there seemed nothing to stop Toppy unless his voice packed up; so Ted and I left him to it.
We set a vague course for the Recreation Ground, to see how they were getting on there. On the way, we ran into young Wakeley; he’d been weeding somebody’s garden and looked even dirtier than usual, if possible. There was a blind beggar standing in the street where we met. An old lady came walking by, and we moved aside to let her pass, so that Ted and Wakeley were up against the wall on either side of the beggar. The old lady stopped, turned back, peered short-sightedly at the group, and said to the beggar,
‘And are these your poor little children, my good man? What pretty boys! What a shame! Begging in the street! T’ch, t’ch, t’ch!’
Ted and young Wakeley were wearing their oldest clothes, and Ted had smears of boot-blacking on his face and hands, and Wakeley looked as if he’d been burrowing in the earth; so you can understand how the old lady made her mistake. The beggar was pretty quick on the uptake, I must say. And I bet he wasn’t blind either. Because he piped up at once, in a sing-song whine, putting his hand on Wakeley’s shoulder.
‘Too true, lady. This is my youngest – Eustace. And this ’ere young shaver’ – he seized Ted by the ear – ‘this is Cyril. The happles of their old dad’s heyes, ma’am. All I have left, ma’am, since me old woman died. Poor motherless babes. Not had a bite of food since yesterday. Spare a copper for me starving kids, lady,’ etc., etc.
Ted and young Wakeley, the poor motherless babes, were red in the face and fairly writhing in the beggar’s iron grip. But the old lady forked out a bob, clucking over them like a broody hen. When she’d passed on, the beggar gave Ted a frightful leer, and said hoarsely,
‘Give yer sixpence if yer stays ’ere beside me for ’arf an hour, you two nippers.’
‘Sixpence each,’ Ted put in firmly.
‘Cor stone the crows, ’ave a ’eart, young gents. I’m a poor man –’
‘Sixpence each.’
‘Call it ninepence for the pair. Split the difference, chum.’
‘Sixpence each,’ Ted replied. ‘Dash it all, we got that bob for you.’
The beggar rolled up his eyes to heaven, groaned, and gave in. So I left them to it.
On the way to the Recreation Ground, I had to pass E. Sidebotham. It’s a newspaper shop in a side street, where some of us get our Comics and Detective Magazines. It suddenly occurred to me, why not offer to take round E. Sidebotham’s evening papers today? So I popped into the shop.
E. Sidebotham is one of Otterbury’s most eccentric citizens. In fact, he’s balmy. But quite harmless. A big man, with an untidy sort of face and an absolutely bald head, always talking to himself. Whether it comes of reading all his own stock of blood-thirsty books, or what, I don’t know. But he’s got a delusion that he’s Sherlock Holmes: my father, who knows Inspector Brook quite well – the Inspector is head of the Otterbury police – says that E. Sidebotham is always pestering the police with offers to solve murder problems; not local ones – we haven’t had a murder for years – but national ones. When I went into the shop, he had a button in the palm of his hand and was gazing at it through a magnifying glass.
‘Highly significant,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this. Notice anything peculiar?’
I said I didn’t.
‘The trained eye perceives at once that the button has been wrenched off,’ he went on in his thick voice. ‘Observe the fraying of the threads. Now then, what does that mean? I will tell you, in one word. Violence.’ His voice sank to a blood-curdling whisper. ‘Maybe, murder.’
‘Where did you find it, Mr Sidebotham?’
He tapped the side of his bulbous nose with a finger the size of a sausage. ‘A-ha! A pertinent question. The button – let us call it Exhibit A – was found by me at precisely nine and a half minutes past six, last night, on enclosed premises, while I was delivering newspapers.’ I suppose the word ‘newspapers’ was like a knell to toll him back to his real self. Anyway, as if a switch had been moved, he changed suddenly from Sherlock Holmes to E. Sidebotham: his eyes sort of unglazed, his voice altered, he put his hands on the counter and said,
‘What can I do for you, young man?’
I asked if he’d let me take on part of his paper-round that evening. He was a bit surprised; but I explained we were collecting money for a charitable object, and he then said OK, he’d give me sixpence to do it. It didn’t seem a great deal, but I haven’t got Toppy’s and Ted’s bargaining powers: so I accepted. He told me which streets I was to deliver the evening papers in. As I left the shop, he was taking up the button and the magnifying glass again.
I will pass over the remaining activities of that day. The various parties were hard at work throughout the afternoon. It had been fixed that we should all rendezvous on the Incident at six o’clock. I was a bit late, the newspaper-round taking longer than I expected. When I arrived, the rest had assembled and Dick Cozzens was telling the story of the film. We’d agreed – those of us who got money to go to the Saturday matinée at the movies – to hand it in to the Nick Yates Assistance Fund instead. But, in case anyone’s parents should ask about the film we were supposed to have seen there, it was arranged that Dick Cozzens should go to it, and tell the story of it afterwards.
Well, he gave his account, and then we proceeded to the main business of the evening. The plank was set up again on the dustbins, the committee ranged themselves behind it, and the great moment was upon us. First, the members of the committee handed over to Ted the money each had collected. He called it out aloud, as he put it into the wooden box, and I wrote down the sum in my account book. Then the other members of the Combined Company filed past, one by one, each adding his or her takings. Toppy’s sister, the lightning artist, had done particularly well, which proved we were right to bring girls into Operation Glazier. As the money poured in, our excited chatter died gradually down to a dazed silence. It was becoming obvious that we’d collected more money than we’d expected in our wildest dreams!
The procession ended up with a few chaps who hadn’t been able to take part in any of the activities, for one reason or another, but who handed in some of their pocket money, instead. When the last chap had passed the table, and everyone was scrumming around behind, breathing down my back and trying to see the figures in the account book, I heard Toppy say, ‘And what about you, Prune?’
I looked up. The Prune was trying to slide away into the crowd. They pushed him out in front of the committee. The fact is that, although the Prune had agreed to come in on Operation Glazier, none of the special parties would have him at any price. Still, he could have contributed some of his pocket money, as the other boys had done.
‘You’ve got enough money there, haven’t you?’ he mumbled.
‘That’s not the point,’ remarked Ted. ‘Everyone agreed to give something.’
‘Well, I’ve changed my mind, then.’
A howl of execration rose up, and people began to advance threateningly upon the wretched Prune.
‘Don’t chiz!’
‘Come on, Prune, fork out!’
‘He’s a pauper!’ yelled Charlie Muswell. ‘A stinking pauper! Spent all his pocket money on drink!’
Ted shut them up. ‘If he doesn’t want to, he needn’t. Let him go. You can buzz off, Prune,’ he said contemptuously.
This stung the Prune. He stepped up to the table, fairly glaring at Ted, dug his hand in his pocket and planked down half a crown.
‘Fooled again,’ he said.
Some boys began to applaud, rather shamefacedly. After all, 2s. 6d. was a good contribution.
‘Thanks very much,’ said Ted, considerably taken aback.
‘Where did you pinch it from?’ asked Peter Butts.
‘It’s probably snide,’ remarked Toppy, taking up the coin, biting it, and bouncing it on the table before he threw it into the box.
‘Don’t be so mean, Toppy,’ his sister said. ‘It’s very generous of him. He was only taking a rise out of you, pretending he wouldn’t contribute.’
‘Yes, I fooled them all right, didn’t I?’ The Prune would go and spoil the impression he’d made, of course – gloating and showing off like that. However, nobody noticed it much, as I was beginning to add up the total in my account book. Here it is:
I called out the total and a great cheer went up. We’d done it! It seemed almost impossible to believe. There was no time now to decide what should be done with the balance of the money after Nick had been given the £4 14s. 6d. for the window: so it was settled that the committee should meet at Ted’s house next morning to discuss this. Ted locked the box, put the key in his pocket and the box under his arm, and set off home. The rest of us went our several ways. Peter Butts was to call in at Nick’s house, and tell him to come round to Ted’s at ten o’clock tomorrow.