The Rabbit

by Ted Lewis

  “Well, he was a bit peculiar.”

  “It wasn’t that. You just wanted me to play with kids of the people you wanted to be friends with.”

  “Oh don’t be so silly. You know what he was like. Mixing with him could have had people thinking you were like him.”

  “But now it’s all right.”

  “Of course it is. Now you’re older and you’re going your own way. Besides, you’re working with him, not mixing with him. It’s different.”

  My father switched off the television.

  “We’d all finished watching, had we?” I said.

  “Nobody was watching. You were all talking.”

  My grandmother eased herself up out of her chair.

  “Well, I think I’ll go up,” she said.

  She began tidying up the supper things and putting them on the trolley.

  “Where’s he working, anyways?”

  “On the wagons, first. Most likely, anyway.”

  “Clacker’ll like that.”

  “Clacker’s not paid to like it.”

  My grandmother pulled the curtain back and said good¬night but no one took any notice of her.

  “And he’s definitely starting tomorrow?”

  “That’s what I said, didn’t I?”

  I got up.

  “Well, I think I’ll have an early night,” I said. “Keep my strength up in preparation for tomorrow.”

  I walked over to the door.

  “It’d be funny if he worked you both into the ground, wouldn’t it?” my father said.

  Next morning Jackson Simons was the first there outside the White Swan. His working clothes had been brushed and pressed for the occasion. He was carrying a tin lunch box under his arm. When I rounded the corner he said:

  “First here, wasn’t I?”

  I nodded.

  “Got five minutes to wait yet,” he said.

  “About that.”

  Although I hadn’t had all that much to drink the night before I had the kind of mild headache that lodges at the top of the nose between the eyes and the ridge of the brow, one of those headaches that because of its very mildness causes irritation in oneself for contracting it in the first place. There was a faint mist on the ground, making the station and the buffers and the goods canopy look like thin brushstrokes on a Japanese wash drawing. Above the mist the sun was still too weak to sharpen up the aspect of the day. The town was still and muffled, the fog its Bedouin blanket against the sun’s heat. Normally all this would have made me open my eyes in order to store the morning’s sensa¬tions in my memory, but today the headache between my eyes was also between myself and the appreciation of the day.

  Two of the other men rolled up.

  “Now then, Mr Crawford, now then, Mr Meadows,” Jackson called out to them as they put their bikes in the Swan yard. It was the first time I’d known what their names were. When they’d done that they walked over and stood nearby.

  “What you doing here, then?” the man called Meadows said to Jackson.

  “Off to work, aren’t I?”

  “At quarry?”

  “Mr Graves fixed me up yesterday night.”

  The two men looked at each other and grinned.

  “I reckon I’m off to like it,” Jackson said.

  The two men grinned again and unfolded their papers.

  “Mr Meadows lives two doors off from us,” Jackson said to me with pride.

  The lorry arrived. Arthur got down from his cab and began to make for Stanley’s to get his paper. He stopped when he saw Jackson.

  “What’s this then?” he said.

  “I’m starting with you this morning, Mr Akester,” he said.

  “Fred Cook died then, has he?”

  Arthur carried on across the road to Stanley’s.

  “Who’s Fred Cook?” Jackson asked me.

  “Bloke at the quarry,” I said. I didn’t want to have to ex¬plain Arthur’s comments to Jackson.

  The men climbed the back of the lorry and got into the tin hut. Jackson and I followed suit and sat down inside the hut.

  “This is all right, isn’t it?” Jackson said, looking round the hut. Nobody answered. Arthur got back from Stanley’s and started up the lorry.

  “I wonder what I’m off to be doing?” Jackson said to me.

  “Flinting, I think.”

  “Flinting? Hell. Is it good?”

  I began to wish I’d got a paper like the other men. I shrugged.

  “Not bad,” I said.

  “What do you do when you do flinting?”

  I looked round the cab. I’d rather have not had to explain it in front of the men.

  “Eh?” said Jackson.

  “Well,” I said, “You sort flints out of the limestone. You know.”

  “Is that all?”

  “You have to crack the big stones so that they don’t jam steelworks crusher.”

  “What, with a hammer?”

  The man called Crawford looked up.

  “No, you keep throwing the stone on the floor until it breaks, you daft cunt.”

  “Hey, no, you don’t, do you?”

  Crawford went back to his paper.

  “Oh, he’s kidding, isn’t he?” said Jackson, a wry grin on his face, describing to the hut at large that it would take more than that to fool Jackson Simons.

  The lorry stopped to pick up Herbert Wheatley, I heard Arthur’s voice above the running of the engine.

  “Got a new hand on the back.”

  “A what?”

  “Boss’s set a new man on.”

  The cab door slammed and Herbert’s words were cut off from the rest of us.

  “Is that Mr Wheatley?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He’s foreman, isn’t he?”

  I nodded.

  “Your dad said last night.”

  I remembered that my book was in my knapsack so I began to fish it out.

  “Is he all right?” asked Jackson.

  I opened my book. Crawford rustled his paper. I knew he was waiting to see what my reply was going to be; my reply would indicate in which camp I stood.

  “For a foreman,” I said.

  The perfect answer, I thought. Jackson chuckled in appreciation.

  “You should have been at Ropery,” he said. “Ossie Sampson’s dad’s a foreman there.”

  “When you’ve been working a bit you might know summat about foreman,” Crawford said, without looking up from his paper. The remark wasn’t just directed at Jackson. It also referred to my earlier expression. I sensed Jackson turn to me, expectant of a grin or a nudge, but I opened my book at random and started to read.

  After the hut had been taken off the lorry Jackson and I walked across to the loaded lorry. Herbert Wheatley came over to us.

  “Now then, Jackson,” he said. “You’re the new hand, are you?”

  “Yes, Mr Wheatley.”

  “Do you know what you’re off to be doing?”

  “Yes, Mr Wheatley. Flinting.”

  Herbert looked at Jackson for a moment, as if he was trying to come to some sort of decision.

  “Anyway, I’ll be down to see how you’re getting on afore breakfast,” he said at last. “Victor’ll show you what to do.”

  He turned away and went off towards the quarry.

  Arthur drove us down to the kilns without speaking to us. Clacker was already in the wagons when we got there. Arthur jumped down and he and Clacker unbolted the tail¬board while Jackson and I got down on our side. I waited for Arthur to say something to Clacker about Jackson but Arthur reversed the tipper and strode off towards the kilns. At first Clacker didn’t notice Jackson. Clacker got
down into the wagon he’d been in and carried on working. Jackson and I stood on the edge of the platform and watched him. It was up to me to say something but I knew that whatever I said was going to be misinterpreted by Clacker. While I was thinking of what to say Clacker looked up and caught sight of us. He stared at Jackson without saying anything.

  “Now then,” Jackson said, pulling his cap more firmly on his head.

  “This is Jackson Simons,” I said. “He’s starting with us.”

  Clacker’s lips slid back to reveal his gums and he spat violently.

  “Oh, yes?” he said. “Who the fuck says?”

  “My dad set him on last night.”

  Clacker looked Jackson up and down and back again. Jackson moved his lunchbox from under one arm to under the other.

  “Pissed up, was he?” Clacker said.

  “Pardon?” Jackson said.

  “The boss. Was he pissed up?”

  “I just went round,” Jackson said.

  Clacker shook his head.

  “Fuck me,” he said, and went back to work.

  I got into the wagon next to Clacker.

  “Come on,” I said. “I’ll show you what to do.”

  Jackson hesitated on the platform’s edge.

  “Where shall I put my snap tin?” he said.

  “In the shade, under that bush over there,” I said. I took off my jacket and handed it and my satchel to Jackson.

  “Here, put these with it, will you?”

  Jackson took it and went over to the bush. When he came back he got into the wagon with me.

  “Like I said, Jackson, all you do is sling flints like this one into the barrow and crack the bigger stones with a hammer.”

  “Where’s me hammer?”

  “I’ll tell Mr Wheatley to get you one when he comes down,” I said. “Just throw out the flints for the time being.”

  Jackson went busily to work, scrambling all over the wagon, re-arranging the stone and finding even the smallest flint. While he worked he talked non-stop about the films we’d seen the night before, virtually going through each of the plots from beginning to end: “...and that bit when that feller shoots him in the cabin and then he gets on his horse and rides off and he doesn’t know those others are waiting for him, that was dead good, and then after that, that bit where he…”

  I just grunted in reply whenever Jackson paused for breath, not really listening, but thinking of the times past, like when exams were imminent and the necessities of re¬vision caused my parents to forbid mid-week visits to the pictures. Jackson would be at the school gate the mornings after even on the mornings when the examinations threw their cold shadow across the school, retelling shot by shot the experiences of the previous evening, his enthusiasm unhindered by the prospect of failure.

  I threw a flint on to the barrow with the result that several more flints slid down on to the platform.

  “Do you empty that?” Jackson asked.

  “Yes, it needs emptying,” I said, making to get out of the wagon, but Jackson beat me to it.

  “I’ll do it,” he said. “Where does it go?”

  “The tip’s over there by the bush,” I said.

  Jackson trotted the barrow over to the tip. Arthur and Frank Peacock appeared at the top of the flint chute and Arthur pointed in Jackson’s direction. I sat on the edge of the wagon and lit a cigarette. As I shook the match out I heard a clattering from the flint tip. Jackson was standing at the top of the tip but the barrow was somewhere out of sight. Jackson disappeared down the tip and reappeared some minutes later wrestling with the barrow. Somehow he must have managed to let go of the handles when he’d tipped up the barrow. He saw me looking at him and he gave me a red-in-the-face grin and set the barrow on the ground and dusted off his hands.

  “Bloody thing fell down the tip,” he called out.

  He took hold of the handles again and attempted to push the barrow back over to the wagons but the accident on the flint tip must have bent the axle because the front wheel was too much askew to pass easily through the shafts of the barrow, so Jackson pushed and the rigid wheel grated across the platform’s surface. I expect he thought that perhaps nobody would notice.

  When he got back to our side he said:

  “Wheel’s a bit stuck.”

  I got out of the wagon and had a look. The shafts of the rusty barrow were bent as well as the axle. It needed a few taps with the fourteen-pounder on the shafts and the wheel should be able to pass through, even though it would still wobble. I got the hammer from the wagon and laid the barrow on its side. Clacker watched with interest. Arthur began to walk back from the kilns. I laid the head of the hammer against the shafts, lifted the hammer, then let it fall. The right-hand shaft broke in two and the wheel slipped off completely.

  “Hell,” said Jackson. “The bugger’s broke.”

  I looked at him.

  As Arthur walked past us to the lorry he said:

  “That’s fixed it.”

  “What are we off to do?” Jackson said as Arthur drove off.

  I looked towards the kilns.

  “I’ll go and see if Frank Peacock’s got a spare.”

  I walked over and slithered down the chute. The heat was incredible. The thin rails that carried the panniers were sunk in a trench that ran round three sides of the kiln building, and the gravel was baking beneath my feet. The sides of the trench were like ovens. I rounded a corner of the kiln. In front of me the Webster brothers and Duggie Forder were lolling in one of the panniers.

  “Eh up,” said Willie Webster. “It’s the artist.”

  The other two giggled.

  “Is Mr Peacock about?” I said.

  “He’s gone for a shit,” said Tony Webster.

  They all burst out laughing.

  “I need a new barrow,” I said. “Is there a spare one hang¬ing about?”

  “There’s—” Duggie Forder began, but that was as far as he got because Willie Webster grabbed him in the balls.

  “You fucking cunt,” shrieked Duggie, and tried to grab him back. They began rolling about in the pannier. Tony Webster jumped down to get out of the way of the flailing couple. The pannier rocked to and fro. Their giggling shrieks wob¬bled the melting air. I tried to take no notice of them by persisting about the barrow with Tony.

  “Come on,” I said. “Is there a spare barrow or isn’t there?”

  There was another squeal from the pannier as one of them found his mark. Tony thrust his clenched fists deep in the front pockets of his overalls and bellowed with stupid excited laughter. Then Frank Peacock appeared round the corner of the kiln.

  “What the fuck’s all this?” he shouted, striding towards the pannier.

  Tony Webster spun round as though he’d been kicked up the backside. The sounds of the laughter from the pannier stopped immediately and Willie and Duggie tried to strug¬gle out of the pannier but before they had any time to dis¬engage from each other Frank Peacock had released the tipping brake and grasped the sides and upended the pan so that Willie and Duggie were tipped out on to the floor of the trench.

  “What in fuck’s name do you call this?” Frank shouted at them. “What are you, fucking fairies?” Willie and Duggie got up from the floor. “Why aren’t you round the other side loading that lime? Come on, let’s be having you or you’ll be down the fucking road.”

  The three of them disappeared round the corner of the kiln.

  “And what do you want?” Frank said to me.

  “I came to see if you had a spare barrow you could let me have.”

  “No, I haven’t a spare barrow,” he said irritably. “What do you want a spare barrow for?”

  “The shaft’s broken on the one we use.”

  “Broken? How did that happen?”<
br />
  “I was trying to mend it.”

  “What did it need mending for?”

  I began to explain but Frank gave me no chance. He’d already started up the chute on his way to inspect the damage. I followed him up the chute and over to the broken barrow. Clacker was sitting on the barrow’s edge, smoking. Jackson was standing by the barrow, hands in pockets, whistling long tuneless high-pitched notes.

  “So what happened, then?” Frank said.

  “The shaft got bent and when I tried to straighten it out with the hammer it snapped,” I said.

  “And how did the shaft get bent?”

  Still whistling, Jackson walked away from us and stood at the edge of the platform. I glared at his back.

  “It fell down the flint tip,” I said.

  “Fell down the bloody flint tip? Fucking Jesus. I’m respon¬sible for all stuff down here, you know. Look well, won’t it, saying we need a new barrow because old one fell down flint tip.”

  Clacker laughed.

  “I don’t know what’s so bloody funny,” Frank said to him. “Can’t you keep them in order, instead of letting them break a bloody barrow?”

  Clacker spat.

  “Don’t come that, Peacock,” he said.

  “Can’t you manage a couple of kids?”

  “Do you want one putting on you?” Clacker said, stand¬ing up.

  “Do you what?”

  My father’s car rolled up the slope.

  “I said do you want one putting on you?”

  “Just bloody try it, mate,” Frank said.

  My father got out of the car.

  “Now what’s going on?” he said.

  Frank and Clacker shrugged off their aggression with the ease that they would slip off their working jackets, but it was only for my father’s benefit. The heat was still there.

  “Barrow’s busted,” Frank said, obviously not wanting to be the one to implicate me. My father looked at the barrow, putting to one side the aggravation he’d just witnessed.

  “How the bloody hell did that happen?” he said.

  “Your new hands managed it a’tween them,” Clacker said.

  My father gave him a sharp look.