Looking for Africa Page 10

  “Over there?”

  “Yeah. Get in the bleedin’ queue, same as the rest of us,” called out a thick-set boy.

  I knew who the lot were with him - the St Neots mob.

  “Eh, ain’t you from the so-called Big Five gang - Rocks and them other kids?”

  Just then a large chunk of coke hit me on the cheek. I reeled over, falling to the floor in real pain.

  “Get out of here,” shouted the yard foreman to the mob. “Are you OK, mate? Here, let’s have a look at your face. Yeah, you will live,” he said, giving my face the once-over.

  Chapter 25 - The Regatta Preparation

  It was time for Boxer to complete his dare. He was getting very nervous about the event. The regatta was of the utmost important to the Big Five, as this would be an opportunity for us to display our strength. No weaklings, stragglers or telltale tits were allowed. We had to beat the Saxons. They had a crew of bigger boys than we did, but we were determined to prevail - I think that’s the right word. Anyway, you know what I mean. Boxer was not allowed to any of our meetings until he had completed his dare. He was sitting outside the meeting house chewing a stem of grass, waiting.

  “First thing, everyone,” said Rocks, tapping his potato stick loudly, then more loudly when nobody took notice. “I’ll say again!” he went on. This time all in the pillbox meeting house was dead quiet. “We have to go to every house in the area and collect bags of soot.”

  “Yes! Yes!” echoed the group.

  “Hang on a minute,” piped up Nifty.

  “Now what?” replied Rocks.

  “We could go to Redman the chimney sweep and he’ll give us a bag free.”

  “OK, that’s settled that.” Rocks sat down. “Right, we need to find small bags to put the soot bombs into.” He looked around for any suggestions, but none were made. “Meeting closed! Let’s get on with Boxer’s dare and get started on the houseboat.”

  We walked under the railway bridge, heading for Cook’s Bridge and the houseboat, with Tonka excitedly running in front. We had to cross Lonely Tree Field. The crab-apple tree was named the Lonely Tree because it was the only one in the field. It went back to Robin Hood’s day, so the older boys said. I knew boys who said they’d climbed the tree in the evening and heard voices among the branches. Also I heard teenage boys and girls saying they’d heard singing as they went past in their boats, but there was nobody to be seen.

  Boxer stopped walking and sat on the ground with his head back against the trunk of the Lonely Tree. His knees were up against his chest. This was the first time I noticed he had no socks on. In fact, he looked like one of the chimney-sweep boys I’d seen in books at school.

  “I’m out of breath,” he said to us all.

  “No you’re not,” said Rocks, “you’re chicken, scaredy-cat.”

  “No I’m not.” He started to get up. “I’ll show you now who’s scared.”

  Whenever we passed under the railway bridge, it reminded me about the glow-worm. I used to follow the old disused railway line over the backwater bridge in the evening looking for glow-worms. I told my teacher, Miss Smith, about this. None of my friends believed me until Miss Smith showed the class a picture of a glow-worm. It is actually a beetle which glows in the dark to attract lady beetles, I was most upset it wasn’t a proper worm that shines in the dark.

  Little Joe spotted a football floating in the backwater which ran along the edge of Lonely Tree Field. We all stopped and tried to fish the ball out with sticks. Tonka started to bark loudly, thinking it was all fun. He jumped in and tried to get hold of the ball, but it just kept rolling over in the water as he tried to grab it in his mouth. Eventually he swam back to the bank. Nifty whipped off his clothes and skinny-dipped into the water. He came out covered in weeds. It was then we a noticed the black bruises on his back. He said then his dad had welted him for smoking. His dad had missed fighting on the front because he had cancer due to smoking. He helped on the land - farming, I think.

  We had to go through the Coote & Warren coal yard to get to the field where the houseboats were. The Co-op horse and carts trundled out of the coal yard every morning except Sunday. They delivered coal and milk to all of Huntingdon and all the little villages too. I watched the scene sometimes from my bedroom window. Each of the horses has a name.

  I had a little part-time job with Mr Davis on his Co-op milk round. Every weekend, with Daisy (the horse) and Mr Davis, I delivered milk. I loved Daisy to bits. She was a lovely old horse. Along The Avenue we called at all but one house in the row. We delivered to Mrs Joyce, Mrs Adams, Mr Clark and lastly, Mr Cross. The only gold-top was for Mrs Joyce; everyone else had silver-top. We always stopped outside Mr Clark’s house to feed Daisy. I say we stopped, but I should say Daisy stopped - she knew every house on the round and always stopped exactly in the right place.

  Mr Cross’s house was called Ye Old Toll Bar. It was the house which his Great-Great-Great-Grandfather Cross lived in. This must be true because Mr Cross said so. His grandfather collected the toll that was paid to cross over the old Norman bridge. I know this is true as I heard the grown-ups talking about it.

  When the round was finished, Mr Davis allowed me to ride Daisy back to the Co-op stable down Germain Street. She trotted much more quickly going home. Bless her, she couldn’t wait for her food and brush-down.

  “OK, Matty, you can take her home now to the stables,” said Mr Davies.

  I always talked to her when I brushed her. Daisy was a grey with a touch of white on her face. She blew wind a lot when we were on the round, but she always lifted her tail up in the air first to let us know when she was going to blow off.

  “Now, that was a good day today, Daisy,” I said one morning, brushing her down. “Lovely sunshine, we sold all the milk, and Mr Davis is a happy man.”

  She thrust her head in the air and neighed.

  I would brush her till she was as clean as a whistle all over, and she would thrust her right leg back and forth, neigh again and start to eat her dinner.

  “I must say now, Daisy, see you six in the morning.” I would give her a big hug.

  Sometimes, on a Sunday afternoon, you could find Daisy with her head in the window of the old pub The John Peel, next to Port Holme Meadow, while Mr Davis was in there having a pint.

  We reached the outskirts of Houseboat Field and climbed through the hawthorn hedge. The hot sun was beginning to go down so it must have been about four o’clock. We stopped at a distance from the houseboat in the long grass. In fact, we were so well hidden that we couldn’t see one another.

  “Where are you all?” I called out in a low voice.

  I heard voices.

  “OK, OK.” Keeping my voice low started to make my throat sore. “Make for that old shed near the houseboat,” I called out.

  I looked up above the grass and saw little bodies crawling towards the shed. We met together behind the shed so as not to be seen. The first houseboat was empty, but the other two had people living inside them. In one of these houseboats lived a boy from our school.

  ‘What if he sees me?’ I thought. ‘Blast it - he will report me, that’s for sure!’

  Boxer was already on the empty houseboat. I could see him moving in and out of the rooms. At last he beckoned to all of us, one by one, to come aboard. Rocks, the first to follow, clapped Boxer on the shoulders for his daring exploit. We all went round the vessel and found three bedrooms, a kitchen and a sitting room. The glass windows were mostly smashed and the beds were all rusty. An old tin used for food was empty apart from some mouldy old bread.

  “They could have left some food for us,” griped Rocks.

  It must have been forty feet long and ten feet wide, the houseboat. It was made entirely of wood. There were more rooms on top but many of the planks were too rotten to walk on.

  “This will be grea
t for our Roman boat,” said Nifty, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Great,” we all repeated.

  “We need to paddle it somehow out of the backwater,” someone called out in a low voice.

  “Yes,” someone else called out, all exited. It was Little Joe. “Look over here,” he said, pointing to the weeds. It was a small rowing boat belonging to the houseboat. The mooring rope was underneath the weeds, hidden from view.

  “The river water is higher than normal for this time of year,” I said as I jumped into the rowing boat before anyone else and grabbed the rope. “There are two paddles in here,” I called out.

  “Hang on, Matty.”

  Little Joe was soon next to me and handing the paddles to Rocks.

  “All aboard,” shouted Rocks. “Let’s go.”

  We tied the little grey rowing boat to the back of the houseboat and we were off. A big cheer rose up: “Hooray!” It was the most exiting day of my life.

  Rocks and Nat paddled the houseboat toward the open river. I thought the river was a bit high. I began to worry. I was just about to say something to Rocks when the river caught hold of the houseboat. We were travelling fast towards the wooden railway bridge. We all made for the front of the houseboat. We watched in horror as we gathered speed towards the bridge.

  “Jump on to the piers of the bridge!” I screamed out as the boat hit.

  We all managed to grab hold of the wooden pillars. We all scampered up to the top and on to the railway line. We scampered in different directions. People at Castle Hill saw everything.

  The houseboat gradually broke up into small pieces as it was forced between the arches of the bridge. It was the end of our expedition.

  I was summoned to the headmaster as soon as I arrived at school next day.

  “You, boy, are a disgrace to our school.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr Hobson.” I replied, not knowing what he was talking about.

  “Our school, Saint Mary’s, will not tolerate pupils like you.”

  He took me into my classroom, where I faced the class.

  “You stole and destroyed property - a houseboat which belonged to poor people evacuated from London.”

  Next he did the thing I most dreaded - he went to his old oak chest of five drawers standing in the corner of the classroom and took out from the top drawer the largest plimsoll I had ever seen. The whole class gasped with dismay at the sight.

  “Bend over, boy.”

  I waited and waited for the plimsoll to fall upon my shaking body, and when it came the pain was excruciating. He made sure each welt was followed by a long pause so that I would not be able to gauge when it would strike. Whack! Whack! Whack! One welt after the other! I managed to spot Rita and looked for pity in her eyes at my painful state. She turned her head as much as to say she knew me not. The tenth welt was the final blow. I had lost my pride and my dignity, and I had suffered humiliation in front of the class. Worst of all, I thought I had lost Rita. I kid you not, I hoped things would get better.

  Chapter 26 - The Strange World of Mr Pym

  “I’m sore, Boxer - really sore - more so for getting a whacking in front of my school friends, especially Rita.” I looked towards Boxer for moral support and sympathy.

  “Sorry to stare, Matty,” he sneered, “b-b-but ha ha ha!” he said, with his head rolling and his face full of laughter. “Sorry, mate - the sight of you getting the cane in front of all and sundry! Great!” he said with a couple more chuckles.

  “I’m going to scrump an apple. Do you want to come or should I wait till you’ve finished laughing?”

  “Where are you going to scrump, Matty?” replied Boxer.

  “From the garden of that mad professor’s house,” I replied as I put on an old cap which I kept in my camp. “One of my dad’s old caps, Boxer,” I said when I saw him looking at me strangely. “It makes me feel Dad’s around.”

  We reached the top of the hill.

  “A great view from the top of this Castle Hill place, Matty,” said Boxer, holding his hand up to shield the hot sun from his face. “We could stand on top of the old tower of the medieval castle.”

  “We haven’t got time to hang about, Boxer. Give me a hand over this brick wall, can you?”

  I was just about holding on to the top of the red-brick wall when it started to crumble. Boxer held on to me while I legged it over. The garden some way from the house was full of old bricks and stinging nettles; nearer there were large lawns and flower beds. Out of nowhere appeared an old man with pure-white scraggly hair. It was too late for us to run for it, so we just stood to await our punishment for scrumping. He just stood there, legs apart and arms folded.

  “My name is Mr Pym. You’re just in time for tea, lads. Step this way, please.” We followed the old gaunt figure towards the house. We were both gobsmacked - no punishment, no smack around the ear?

  We followed him through the back door into the kitchen and sat down. A lady wearing a chef’s hat and white apron put her head around the door in the far corner of the kitchen and smiled. Mr Pym smoked an old clay pipe which kept billowing out clouds of smoke into the air.

  “I’m Matty and this is Boxer.”

  “Paddy,” said Mr Pym to his tiny brown-and-black Jack Russell with a raised voice, “if you want this bone, you must sit and show Matty and Boxer how clever you are.”

  Paddy looked to the left at Tonka, and then to the right at me. He paused, then looked back at Boxer.

  “Right,” said Mr Pym, “that’s you and me finished.”

  He was just about to return the bone to the overhead kitchen cupboard when Paddy gave a short, sharp yelp.

  “Oh,” said Mr Pym with a winning smile, “changed your mind, have you? I thought you would give in before I did.”

  Paddy’s tail wagged with glee, but he had no intention of sitting up to beg for the bone. As far as Paddy was concerned he had won the day.

  “No sit, no bone, young man; and it’s no good wagging your tail - Mr Pym doesn’t give in.”

  Paddy stopped wagging his tail as Mr Pym turned away to fill the kettle for tea.

  Have you travelled far, boys?” he said, turning to face Boxer and me.

  “No, not far,” we replied as one voice.

  Mr Pym went to the shoe cupboard and took out Paddy’s lead.

  “Want to go out, young man?” he said, holding up the lead in a teasing manner.

  Paddy began rolling over and over in an attempt to win over Mr Pym’s affection. We watched Paddy’s antics and both thought he was a clever little dog.

  “Don’t think you have won the day with a few roll-overs, Paddy,” said Mr Pym, attaching the lead to his collar.

  Crouching down on his front legs, he covered his eyes with his paws.

  “And don’t start looking like that, trying to make me feel guilty in front of our new friends, young man.”

  Paddy started pulling towards the front door.

  “I found Paddy one winter in a shop doorway in a back alley,” said Mr Pym. “He’s only a little Jack Russell, but you can’t help but like him.”

  Tonka, sniffing, drew close to Paddy. Both dogs touched each other on the nose. Their tails wagged. They were now friends.

  “He was shivering intensely from the cold when I found him in the alley. It was clear he hadn’t eaten for days. Talking of eating, have you enjoyed my apples you’ve been scrumping, boys?”

  We turned towards Paddy.

  “Poor little fellow!” said Boxer.

  We both went over to stroke him.

  “There is no need to change the subject about the scrumping.” Mr Pym bent down and stroked Paddy as well. “It’s OK, lads,” said Mr Pym, “you’re welcome to as many apples as you want.”

  We all made for the front door with Paddy bouncing
around our feet.

  “I heard all about what you had done for Mrs Brown. Good work should be rewarded. If you continue to keep pulling, Paddy, you won’t go,” Mr Pym said in a stern voice. “You are both invited to come and say hello to Mrs Burton. I’m sure she would love to hear all about little Jimmy and how you saved him from the Devil Jack.”

  Mr Pym locked his front door. Stepping down from his red-painted concrete step he checked the lead was secure on Paddy’s collar.

  “OK, little lads, let’s make for Mrs Burton’s. She’s a dear, dear friend of mine. With luck she may have just finished baking cakes. If so, you’re in for a treat. Her cakes are something else.”

  Mr Pym’s front garden, just a short distance from the road, had ornamental white stones on either side of the concrete path. On the left and right of the path a small square lawn lay, bordered with flowers.

  “It’s a nice garden, Mr Pym,” said Boxer as we made our way to Mrs Burton’s house. In the distance, a white, swirling mist had appeared. Mr Pym didn’t appear to take much notice, but Boxer and I began to get concerned.

  “I’m scared, Matty,” said Boxer, one hand grabbing hold of my sleeve.

  “I don’t like it either, Boxer. Shall we get out of here?”

  The swirling mass seemed to be coming closer, and strange noises came from the centre. The sound of crying unnerved us both. There was darkness everywhere.

  “Let’s follow Mr Pym a while longer. We can get away later,” we both decided.

  After knocking on Mrs Burton’s back door, Mr Pym ventured into the kitchen.

  “Mrs Burton,” he called, “are you there?”

  In an ash tray smouldered the remains of a cigarette, which was quite strange as Mrs Burton was always very careful about her smoking habits.

  “Something isn’t right here,” said Mr Pym with a somewhat bewildered expression.

  Mr Pym began to get most concerned about Mrs Burton. He was very unsure about taking to the stairs - it would just be too forward - but he could wait no longer for an answer. She might be in desperate danger. After stubbing out the still-smouldering cigarette, he made for the stairs. Paddy began to whine in a most unusual way.