by Derek Reid
“I - I’m sorry,” I said, by now my teeth starting to chatter with fear. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I fumbled further for a new match. “H-have you got a candle, please?” I said, still shaking.
“A bloody candle is no good without a bloody match, is it?” said the boy.
I held out my hand with the book of matches waving in the darkness. “Here you are,” I said to him.
He snatched the matches from my hand and lit the candle.
“Why, you’re only a sprat of a thing,” said the boy with a look of contempt as he lit the candle. “One punch and you would be down.” He came closer to me, shoving his face into mine; he was but an inch away. “Any yap from you and you’ll get this fist straight in your gob - get it?”
I felt like crying, but held back for fear of further abuse.
“Why do you shout and scream?” I said, by now plucking up some courage. Adrenaline now began pumping in my body. “And, in any case, I’m only a little shorter than you. Not only that,” - I surged forward towards the boy - “I might just punch you one first!” I drew my right fist backwards. “My dad was an army boxing champion.” By now I held my left hand up as well as the right. “He showed me a lot and I might just use some of it on you!”
“Calm down, sprat,” said the boy as he tipped the candle to drip hot wax on to the top of an old orange box so he could stand the candle upright. He waited until the wax had dried and the candle was firm.
“Sit down there, sprat,” he continued as he brought forward another wooden orange box for me to sit on.
“My name is Matty, not sprat,” I retorted with some contempt.
“Yeah, OK, Matty,” the boy responded, giving a couple of nods.
“What’s your name?”
The boy moved uncomfortably on the makeshift chair.
“I,” - he looked over towards me, then back towards the floor - “I don’t have a name.”
“Everyone’s got a name.” I moved closer to the boy. “You just cannot have no name.” I moved closer still.
“I ain’t got a bloody name!”
The candlelight showed a trickle of tear from his eye.
“Without a name, how can you be anyone?” I said, very concerned.
Yes, yes, I ain’t nobody - OK, clever clogs.”
The boy stood up, shaking his head and running his hands through his thick, unkempt mousy-coloured hair. I moved back to where I had been standing, looking at the ground for a moment in deep thought. I suddenly sprang to attention.
“I can call you Boxer!”
“Call me what you want,” the boy replied.
“No - really,” I replied with some jubilance. “I think that’s a great name.”
The lad moved behind me, and, turning to follow his direction, I swivelled on the orange box.
“You looked like a boxer when I first set eyes on you. I thought you must box for a boxing club of some sort.”
The boy looked at me sideways and then square in my face.
I started to look around the kiln.
“There’s smoke coming out of the chimney, Boxer. I couldn’t see where it was coming from when I looked around earlier.”
“That’s my little oven,” he said proudly. “I can just about make my bread.”
“Bread?”
“Yes, bread!” he replied sharply, glaring with his big blue eyes. “Me and little Smokey have to live on something - not like you city bods. You have it all done for you.”
“Who is little Smokey, Boxer?” By now I was beginning to get worried about the set-up there. Who was Boxer? Where did he come from? He looked a strange boy in his funny, old, dark, ragged clothes. And what about this Smokey geezer?
“Look over to the corner, and what do you see?”
He was smiling as we both looked together.
“Oooh,” I said, moving closer to what I could now see was a miniature table. There on one side was a miniature knife and fork, and on the opposite side was a larger knife and fork. I was gobsmacked, I can tell you.
“Tell me more, Boxer,” I said, moving closer to see better.
“Little Smokey is a mouse.” Boxer was standing beside me now. “He’s been my only friend in this place. He was nearly dead when I found him. He couldn’t fetch any food because his back legs were shot. Poor little mite just lay there - I had to help him.”
“What did you do, Boxer? How could you help him?”
“I found an old brown bottle which had a tube inside. ‘Eye-drops’ the bottle said. Anyway, I fed him with milk through the tube. I just gave him a tiny weeny drop at a time till he came through.”
“Gawd, that is wonderful.” I said, giving a few taps on Boxer’s shoulder in admiration.
“What about the knife and fork, though, Boxer?” I asked, picking them up to take a better look.
“I found an old broken saw blade and small file,” he said, picking up the miniatures and giving them a blow and a polish with an old hanky he had. “It took ages to make them.”
“They’re super-duper, Boxer - made so perfect, just like real ones.”
Just then, I heard a squeaking noise coming from the far corner of the kiln.
“Stand still and meet little Smokey,” said Boxer with his finger over his lips as a sign to hush.
He placed a few breadcrumbs on the spot where the miniature knife and fork were, and up the legs of the makeshift table ran the little white mouse. Stopping for a moment, he sat down on his back legs to have a good look around. His little pink nose quivered as he sniffed in all directions before going to his place between the knife and fork.
“Sometimes,” said Boxer as quietly as possible, “I can go right up to him and have a little natter before he decides to go.” Boxer smiled proudly.
We decided to go and sit down on the makeshift seats, leaving little Smokey to his supper of Boxer’s bread.
“How did you make the bread, then, Boxer?”
I thought the whole thing wonderful as he explained in detail his friendship with Smokey.
“I make for the cornfield over yonder,” he said, pointing towards the field, “then put the corn in this bowl here.” He lifted up an old metal bowl he had found in the corner. “Bash all the corn in the bowl till it turns to flour, blow away all of the ears, then mix it with water from that old tap outside.” I followed him over to a small oven in the corner of the kiln. “Then I place it inside this old oven over here till cooked - a nice brown colour, I might add.”
“What about yeast?”
“What’s yeast?”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” I replied.
Chapter 5 - Tonka
“Anyway” - he paused, shaking his head in approval - “I’ll agree to what you said earlier. The name Boxer, I mean - yes, I agree to that.”
Just as he spoke the candle flickered.
“Quiet!” said Boxer. “Don’t make a move.”
I stood motionless, too frightened to move.
“What is it?” I asked. By now fear was beginning to take the upper hand.
“Someone’s about,” Boxer whispered as the candle flickered again.
We both stood perfectly still. Not a hair on our heads stirred. In a momentary flash the clouds burst and lightning struck, casting hideous shadows across the kiln. The building shook with the power of the thunder. Boxer extinguished the candle with his forefinger and thumb. A shadow appeared at the entrance of the kiln. Was this the end for us? We were now in total fear.
The shadow, in the shape of a fanged beast, enlarged itself as it slowly approached. A blue flash of lightning showed the monster the size of the kiln. White froth now came from its mouth. The growl was magnified as the beast walked slowly towards us. Were we now to be eaten alive? The kiln echoed with our screams.
We believed we were finished. We both fell to the ground, exhausted with fear. As I waited for death, all went deadly quiet. I felt something warm and wet licking my hand, then my face.
“Help me, Boxer,” I cried out.
By now Boxer had already relit the candle.
“It’s a bloody dog,” he said, throwing back his head with laughter.
Both of us roared with laughter - at our own fears, more than anything - but it was good to see Boxer smiling after all we had just been through.
“It’s a bloody mutt,” said Boxer, chuckling as he stroked the brown fur coat of the animal. “It’s your dog now, Matty,” he said, looking at me with a soft grin.
“Why me?” I replied, also stroking the animal. “I don’t mind, though - he’s lovely.” I kissed the dog, and hugged it. “He looks hungry, Boxer. Have you any spare food? If not, I can get some from home?” Boxer looked inside a rusty old cabinet which hung on the wall from one solitary screw. He kept a small amount of food.
“A little bit of sardine, that’s all.”
Scooping out a small piece of the fish, he held it to the animal’s mouth. Eagerly the dog licked his finger clean. Arms on knees we both watched the dog as he devoured every morsel. He stood looking from one to the other of us, licking his lips in the hope that there would be more.
“Boxer, look at the orange boxes we’re sitting on.”
“Can’t see anything special about them,” he retorted, “just some old pictures. So what?”
We both looked intently at the pictures stuck on to the sides of the boxes.
“This one here says, ‘from Africa’,” I said, all exited. I couldn’t help but jump up and down with joy.
“So what?” replied Boxer with a blank expression, not really taking much notice of what I was looking at. “There are no bloody oranges, though!” He looked towards me with a look of contempt at there being no oranges in the boxes. “Is there?” he said.
“Suppose not.” I was now deflated beyond anything.
“Did you see outside, though, up in the sky?”
Boxer looked at me, totally confused. “See what?” he replied. His rather large nose twitched and his large blue eyes seemed to get bigger as he grew angry. He seemed more confused than ever.
“Come outside and see.”
We both walked towards the outside of the kiln.
“You come too, little fella,” I said to my new-found friend.
The dog wagged its tail and followed at my heels. We both looked up to the skies.
“Over there, Boxer.” I pointed.
“So what?” he said. Both hands ringed his eyes in the shape of field glasses. “Them barrage balloons, you mean?” He kept his ringed hands in the same position when he spoke. “What am I looking at?”
“We can fly one of those to Africa and I can find my dad.”
“Don’t be daft,” replied Boxer with small titters.
“Of cause we can, Boxer - you, me and” - I paused a moment searching for a name - “and little Tonka. Yes, little Tonka, my new-found friend, can come too.”
Tonka looked up, wagging his tail.
“I ain’t going, Matty, but I don’t mind helping you.” Boxer’s face had saddened a little. “I don’t want to be on my own again, mate.” He looked up at me as if pleading. The thought of being on his own again worried him so. The fun had gone from his expression; only a look of gloom remained.
He perked up a bit when I said I would return soon from my flight to Africa, though.
Chapter 6 - The Wicker Basket
“I know where there’s a great big wicker basket which would be great for your balloon. It’s huge, but I think we can shift it.”
“Where is it, then, Boxer?” I asked, highly exited at the thought of flying.
“It’s in one of those old buildings over there.” He pointed to the direction of a cluster of crumbling old wooden huts on the edge of the compound. “We’ll go over a bit later, Matty,” said Boxer, “just in case anyone comes. You don’t know who’s about these days - evening will be better.”
“That’s a good idea, Boxer.”
We sat on an old log with our backs against the kiln and started to put the world to rights.
“I just want my dad back, Boxer. I would just like Mum, Dad and me together again, just like it was before this horrible war came.” I moved a bit closer. “What about you, Boxer? What’s the war done to your family?”
“I lived down the road at Saint Edward Home before ending up here.” He started to draw circles with a stick in the ground. “And” - he stopped short for a moment then carried on - “they were good there, Matty, I mean really good to me.”
“Why leave, then, Boxer?”
He looked squarely at me.
“I just can’t stand rules and regulations, Matty. I waited till all were in bed one night - a full-moon night so I could see where I was going.” He paused a moment. “Stupid really, Matty, cos they could see me too. I jumped out of the window and ran away anyway!”
“But you’ve no proper food to live on, and you drink the river water. What’s good about that. You’ve got an old broken motorbike mirror hanging up on the wall in the kiln and a bunch of rags for a bed - and they stink to heaven. You just can’t live like it, Boxer.”
“OK, OK.” He looked about himself. “My mum dumped me when I was a baby, didn’t want me, got rid of me.” He was talking loudly, then he burst into tears.
I put my arm around his shoulder.
“We’ll find your mum, and we’ll find my dad too, you’ll see - you’ll see, Boxer.” Tonka put his head on Boxer’s knee and whined a little. He could see the pain Boxer was suffering.
I knew by now my mum would begin to worry as I hadn’t yet returned. This started to worry me, but I didn’t show my concern in front of Boxer as I think he would have called off the balloon adventure. I looked at him as he began talking to Tonka, who had curled up in front of us.
“I’ll tell you something, Boxer, which I haven’t told anyone else - and that’s Cub’s honour.”
“What’s that, then, Matty?” he asked, turning his head towards me.
“I have a secret place that’s hidden from every living soul, and I’m sure there’s gold down this place.” I leaned over and stroked Tonka. “When you get to this special place you must not tell a soul where you have been; otherwise whatever is in there will strike you down dead.”
“Where is this place?”
“Only dead people know where my place is.”
Boxer stared at me. I could feel his eyes boring into my face, just waiting for me to say something further.
“Only dead people?” he asked, wiping the last tear about his mum from his cheek. He looked confused.
“Tell you what, Boxer: come with me and Tonka now, and I’ll tell you on the way.”
We walked towards the stone bridge and the old castle, yapping away as if we had known each other for years. Suddenly I grabbed hold of Boxer’s arm.
“Stand still. Don’t move. Now bend down slowly.”
“What’s afoot?” he whispered back as he held on to Tonka.
I pulled his ear close and whispered, “There’s a skylark making towards us,” I said, pointing directly ahead.
“Oh, yeah, that brown speckled bird, you mean. So pretty ain’t it.”
“She’s leading us away from her nest by zigzagging along the grass. She has baby chicks, I would think,” I whispered in Boxer’s ear.
The little bird stopped to look at us, cocking her head from side to side. She must have realised we were no threat. She stopped twice more before disappearing in the grass. I beckoned to Boxer, pointing in the opposite direction; then I started to crawl.
“Look!” he called out, pointing at something on the grou
nd. He put his hand over his mouth as he realised he had made a blunder by shouting out. “Look at that, Matty - three sweet little whitish eggs, all covered in brown spots!”
I joined him.
“Don’t touch the eggs, Boxer. She can smell your hand on them and will abandon them. Let’s go, Boxer, in case she comes back.”
We waited until she had gone for sure, then made for the riverbank, where we stopped to see how we could cross the river without going past my house. I didn’t want Mum to spot me as she would have told me to go straight home.
Chapter 7 - The Tunnel
“By golly, Boxer, some person has left a rowing boat by the bank. Let’s just borrow it a short while, shall we?”
“Sounds good, Matty.”
Neither of us could see anyone about so we all three jumped in. Putting oars to river, we made our way towards the bridge. Tonka was in the front with his nose quivering for all of the scrumptious new smells. We giggled and laughed at our achievement. We fully intended to return the rowing boat, that’s for sure.
“This is fun, Matty.”
“Yeah!”
I laughed as my paddle snagged in the river, sending me backwards to the bottom of the boat. I looked up at Boxer, and giggled as he had done the same thing. We were both at the bottom of the boat.
“Hey, you two! What’s going on there?” shouted a short, tubby old man, waving his hands about as he stood on the opposite riverbank.
Giggling further, we kept our heads down below the level of the boat.
“Do you hear?” came the voice again, but fainter. Soon it faded into the distance.
“Something is wrong, Boxer.”
I started to panic, I can say. We still lay at the bottom of the boat, not daring to look overboard.
“Look at the sky - it looks like we’re going round in circles.”
Looking up, I could see that Boxer was right.
Suddenly, something hit the front of the boat, then something else hit the back. We both peered over the rim. We had drifted downstream and stopped at the tunnel entrance of the hosiery mill. We both put a hand over the edge and hand-paddled till the rowing boat was out of sight of anyone.