Читать книгу Teething Trouble - Philip Edwards - Страница 5

Barnaby Spruddge lay on his straw filled mattress enjoying that pleasant feeling of doziness that arrives at the end of a night’s sleep. Pulling a blanket of sacking up towards his neck, he tried to drive out the smell of the river and the glove factory, a vile odour that crept into every inch of his bare bedroom. “Cleaning out the tanning vats I suppose,” he daydreamed. “That’s going to spoil my walk to school. Hope Ma has brought the washing in. The Brown Town walk to school, on a gloomy Friday morning in Winter”. Pulling the blanket tightly around him and squeezing himself into a hollow in his mattress, he tried to put the image of his journey past the smelly river and the stinking glove factory out of his head.

“GETTOUTCHAABEDRIGHTNOW! You naughty, nasty, ne’er-do-well.” bellowed Ma Spruddge as she dragged the rough, old woollen blanket from her half-starved child.

Barnaby, instantly awake shot out of his straw-filled mattress. He knew from experience that he had no more than five seconds to avoid a beating, a drenching from a saucepan of ice-cold water, or even both. He could never quite decide which was worse. A beating hurt like the blazes, especially when Ma Spruddge was in a mood. A drenching didn’t hurt but then you had a wet mattress for days afterwards. He leapt from his bed and was up and dressed before his blanket had even settled on the floor. Barnaby could move fast when he needed to. Sometimes it was like watching a terrier. He could be somewhere, then between a clock’s tick, he’d be somewhere else. This drove old Ma Spruddge wild but stealth was Barnaby’s best defence against the fearsome leather belt.

“Hey, you dozy daydreamer,” shouted Ma. “You going to eat your breakfast? You don’t think I’m slaving over a hot stove just for you to stare into space do you?”

Porridge again. Porridge mixed with hot water and a little salt. Strangely, it tasted just like porridge mixed with hot water and a little salt. Vile. Oh how Barnaby longed for a decent breakfast. Some hot buttered toast with marmalade, bacon, egg and sausage. Fresh orange juice - now that would be a real treat. A breakfast just like the ones that he sometimes saw the heroes in his comics having, but sadly not for him. Salty porridge had been his breakfast ever since Dad had gone. At least when Dad was alive he’d get a boiled egg on Sunday mornings.

“And I bet you haven’t cleaned your father’s spruddge, you lazy lump.” smirked old Ma Spruddge. “Only thing we’ve got left of your dad. Least we can do is keep it clean in his honour.”

“Not the only thing that we have left,” muttered Barnaby under his breath, “still got his belt haven’t you.”

“WHATCHASAY,”

“I said that I’d cleaned the spruddge last Sunday, just like I clean it every Sunday ma.”

“I hope you cleaned the little brass label, the one that says ‘Hope Gloves for Gentrified Ladies’, with Brasso. ”

“With Brasso,” answered Barnaby, joining in the chorus.

“Bet you forgot to polish the little silver badge, the one that says, ‘Stanley Spruddge, Leading Spruddge Operative. Proud of that badge was your dad. L.S.O. at the glove factory was your dad, just like you grandfather and your great-grandfather.”

“and the grandfathers before that,” added Barnaby.

“Yes, like them all. Gave us a bit more status than most of the folk here in Brown Town. Yes, they all might be working in the glove factory. Squeegers, rinsers, washers but they all held their head up to an L.S.O. Oh yes they did you know. A cut above he was. Knew his spruddge well and bright enough to be left in charge of the spruddger gang when the chief spruddger operative was absent.”

Barnaby looked over at the gleaming spruddge, propped up against the doorway. It looked a bit like a garden fork, but with three wooden prongs, looking much like an old-fashioned milking stool with a handle.

“I bet you forgot to put the oils and polish back were they belong. You’re always forgetting that.”

“No ma. I put them in the box in the shed by the vegetable patch. Just like I do every Sunday.” replied Barnaby in much the same way as he did when they had this weekly conversation. “It’s not looking good down there Ma. Thistles and bindweed everywhere.”

“What about them cabbages that I planted? Those ones by the rhubarb.”

“Dead.” answered Barnaby. “Slugs had them.”

“What about the turnips. I bet them turnips are growing. Nothing can kill a turnip.”

“No, they’re dead too. Greenfly I think.” replied Barnaby.

“Loved that vegetable patch did your dad. His pride and joy they were. Loved his cabbages and onions. His marrows, huge they were. They’d win prizes in the local show they would. Oh how the other gardeners would look up to him. Every summer, his beans would almost block out the sun. Thanks to his vegetables, every summer and autumn, we’d eat like royalty we would.”

Turning her head towards the door, she gazed at the spruddge again.

“He knew that spruddge like his own right arm you know. Every night he’d carry it home on his shoulder he would. Hard to believe that considering where it had been but he always cleaned it before coming home. Day after day, he shoved it into the tanning vat, churning, turning the mix like an Indian chef mixing a saucepan of Chicken Bhoona. He’d hold on to the handle of the spruddge as the three prongs turned the leather, round and round, swirling and churning, never letting the mix keep still. Watched him working a few times. They let me tip my bucket into the vat they did. He looked like a conductor working his orchestra he did. I was so proud of him I was.”

Barnaby passed her a rag to wipe the tears from her eyes. He’d been here before. He knew what was expected of him.

“Just last year it was,” sniffled old Ma Spruddge. “July the eighteenth when the knock came to my door. They had huuuuuge tears in their eyes they did. They did say that it was quick though. Oh, it was hot that day. The fumes from the vat had spread all over Brown Town. Stinking to high heaven it was. Nobody could put their washing out that day, oh no.” she continued as Barnaby lovingly placed his hand on her arm to comfort her. “They said a large bubble of gas had formed deep in the heart of one of the vats. As it rose to the surface, a clump of leather wrapped itself around your poor dad’s spruddge. Silly old Stanley though, he didn’t want to let go of his spruddge did he. That spruddge that had been passed down from his father, his father’s father and all of the fathers before them,” snuffled Old Ma Spruddge, with Barnaby joining in the chorus again. “It had sentimental value didn’t it. I bet he was thinking about the cost of a replacement spruddge. After all, a quality spruddge cost good money. The sort of money that we can ill afford. AND besides, he couldn’t have faced explaining his lost spruddge to old Ma Spruddge, no indeed! Stanley stubbornly refused to let go of his prized possession –Oh no. It was part of his family’s long and proud history. So, sadly just like some other unfortunate spruddgers before him, he got sucked into the vat and drowned – holding firm to the family spruddge. Wouldn’t let go would he.”

“Couldn’t they save him ma?” asked Barnaby knowing that he’d heard the answer a dozen times before.

“Not so much couldn’t save him as wouldn’t save him. Four lads had seen it happen didn’t they but there’s an unwritten rule at the side of the tanning vat. ‘If you go in the vat, then in the vat you stay.’ If anybody had jumped in after him, then they would have drowned too. Besides, if you go into that mix the smell would never leave you. Nobody would ever want to be near you again. Believe me, loneliness can easily be a fate worse than death.”

“SSSSSSSNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNIIFFFFFFFFFF……….THHHHHHRRRRP.” as she blew her nose, making the sort of sound that would have been the pride and joy of the trombone section of any brass band.

“Then the knock came on my door. Three days later it was.”

“Three days,” agreed Barnaby, just as he did whenever they had this conversation.

“Three days later, those lads came carrying your dad’s spruddge. Oh, they’d tried to clean it I know but nobody could clean that spruddge the way that you dad could. Took us days to get it proper clean.”

“Days.” agreed Barnaby, wiping a tear from his mum’s eye with the snot sodden rag.

“So there it stands besides the door now, waiting the time when you take that spruddge and follow your father’s footsteps, and your grandfathers’ and all the great-grandfather’s before that.”

“Great-grandfather’s before that,” nodded Barnaby as the hopelessness of their situation became clear. Now, every single day old Ma Spruddge walked the streets of Hope carrying her bucket and shovel, collecting The Pure:- the dog poo which formed the key ingredient inside the leather tanning vat. Barnaby just waited until he was old enough to shoulder the spruddge. There he sat at the bare kitchen table as his mother sobbed and sobbed, doing his best to comfort her, helping her to blow her nose and wiping away her tears, the sort of tears that could fill an ocean.

They were both pulled back from their gloom by the sound of the spruddgers marching down the street, singing their spruddging song, on their way to their daily toil at the glove factory.

See the merry Spruddgers swirl,

give the mix, a tremendous twirl.

Squishing and scrunching and squeezing it through,

a really revolting repulsive brew.

See the merry Spruddgers swirl,

making the gloves for many a girl

or lady to wear at the finest ball

for her to beguile and entrance them all.

See the merry Spruddgers swirl,

As they watch their factory flag unfurl.

Remember our friends that fell in the mix

drowning’s the fate the vat inflicts.

Barnaby had heard that song so many times. It echoed along the brown side of the river most days as he wandered home from school.

“Doesn’t sound so good without your dad, does it.” snuffled Ma. “Missing his high tenor voice they are. Lovely voice he had did your dad. That song sounded happy when your dad was around even though they were marching to such a dreadful job.It brought a little joy into their troubled world. Sad now. Sad and and slow – more like a funeral.”

It certainly made Barnaby sad thinking that every day he heard it was one day closer to the time he’d actually join them and take his dad’s place.

“Ma. Remember the money that I had from the tooth fairy last Friday?” Barnaby queried tentatively.

“Lords above. You’ve never still got that ten pence. I’d have thought that a scoundrel like you would have had a hole burned in his pocket by now. What you keeping that for anyway? That young lass up the posh end? You can forget that right away. That Beth girl; far too posh for the likes of you.” Ma remarked with a sneer.

Barnaby sighed. “I was thinking of buying some eggs for both of us actually. We could have a nice eggy soldier breakfast ….. like when Dad was around.”

“Aaaaaaaargh!” screamed Ma as her face turned a shade of death. “YOU want to spend YOUR tooth fairy money on ME? After what happened to ME last time. You know that’s against the tooth fairy rule. Look at what happened to ME last time,” giving Barnaby a horrible toothless grin. “There I was, starving half to death after your father….that dozy lump….left us….and there I was with nowhere to go, so I took your tooth fairy money…… just to buy some bread……and why couldn’t he have taken more care with his spruddging anyway? …..Starving I was….we were….just for a loaf of bread…..and that very night, just as my head touched the pillow and I wakes up and not a single tooth in my head. Not a single one. It was the fairies it was. Mark my words, it was the fairies that did it. Oh yes, very nice and sweet they can be but they have a nasty side you now. A mean, nasty side. I’ll never be able to play my clarinet now, not never. You remember the rule me lad? Remember the Fairy Rule? Remember it well, and she gazed skywards and chanted.

fairy silver ‘neath the pillow fold,

is for the child alone to hold.

If silver goes to the daddy or mummy,

’til the day they die, they’ll be awfully gummy.

Barnaby didn’t quite know what to believe when it came to the tooth fairy. Lots of his classmates were convinced that they didn’t exist and that their parents sneaked the money under their pillows whilst they were actually sleeping. It all sounded very possible but it left Barnaby with a couple of questions like why on earth would Ma Spruddge leave money under Barnaby’s pillow when her purse held nothing but emptiness. Also, if it had come from her purse then why was she so certain that she wouldn’t take a share.

It was all so mysterious and odd. You know, you even got a receipt for a tooth. Barnaby felt in his pocket and there was his receipt together with his shining fairy money. The receipt read:-

“Finished? Then stop day dreaming and get yourself off to school and don’t forget, if you see any of The Pure along the way, you make sure you bring it back.” instructed Ma.

Barnaby nodded as he forced down his last spoonful of salty porridge. He grabbed his coat and struggled to get it on. He’d noticeably grown upwards last summer but thankfully not outwards. As a direct result, his arms were now longer than the distance between the coat’s arm-pits and the pockets. He could no longer put his hands in his pockets unless he bent his arms a little. His scarf; Barnaby loved it, as it used to belong to his dad was a deep green and blue of very old fashioned stripes. Just like his dad’s spruddge this had also been passed down through the family. Thankfully, Stanley Spruddge hadn’t been wearing the scarf on that fateful day. Although it had not one ounce of fashion or style attached to it, it kept Barnaby warm in the winter and anything that could do that was a real blessing.

Outside was dark and dreary. A light but persistent cold drizzle fell from the direction of the Hope Glove factory. Thankfully a light breeze was blowing towards the factory now making the air feel clearer and relatively odour less. He walked northwards, catching an occasional glimpse of the river as it made its way past the factory on its slow journey to the sea. He passed The Morgue; a dark, sinister place. He’d once asked Ma what they did in there.

“Where they store the dead bodies, ……..the ones that they manage to get out of the tanning vats, ………not like that dozy dad of yours. Those that die in suspicious circumstances too. They get put in there too whilst things get investigated.” Ma said more in a secret whisper than out loud. She then drew closer to Barnaby and again whispered in a hushed, secretive tones. “Last week, Edgar Spokeshave from up the road did his work experience there. His mum said that it had been very quiet for him. Sometimes…….too quiet. He’d wished it had been a bit more exciting. He’d have loved to have worked the night shift, but they wouldn’t let him”.

Next along his route there was The Rat Farm where an eccentric elderly gent actually bred rats. He arranged for them to be delivered to the local medical research centre to be experimented upon. This journey was strictly a one-way trip for the rats. Barnaby hated rats and he hated this particular part of his journey. The rats were always agitated as though they sensed the fate that awaited them. Always squeaking, always rustling about, never still. Barnaby never quite understood why the rat man ever bothered to farm rats, after all there were plenty running around the lower part of town.

The building itself was just an old tin shanty that looked dark and dirty. Cobwebs and grime covered the window frames. The mark of a stray football could clearly be seen on one pane, from a long, forgotten child dribbling his way to school. Suddenly, a ragged net curtain was forcibly pulled to one side. There was the rat man, Mr. Simpkins. A dinky, thin man with curiously pointed features and protruding teeth. Teeth. Yes, but only three of them. He still had two teeth sticking outwards from his top gum, matched by one crooked, stained tooth on the bottom gum. You know how it is that people say that a dog’s owner often looks like their dog. Well, if you took one look at The Rat Man, you would have no doubt about his choice of pets. He started waving wildly at Barnaby through the window and then started knocking on the filthy glass.

“Oh no,” thought Barnaby, alarmed by the frightening sight, his shoulders sinking so low that his school bag slid slowly downwards to the muddy floor. He felt his heart sinking too, actually feeling it moving downwards, weighed down with with the miserable thought of what he knew what was coming next. The door to the rat farm burst open and there stood The Rat Man, dressed all in grey:- grey trousers held up by a bit of rope and a tatty grey pullover tucked in firmly at the middle. The legs of his trousers were also bound up with rope, “Just in case of an escaped rat I suppose.” thought Barnaby.

“Just the man I wanted,” wheezed Mr. Simpkins. “Indeed, the very man indeed. Tell me young Spruddge. How are you keeping these days? Busy? Just wondering, you free Saturday morning? About 11? You wouldn’t be free would you? Or would you?”

“What’s the problem Mr. Simpkins?” responded Barnaby nervously.

“Well, not a problem at all. No, not a problem. Maybe an opportunity though, an opportunity for you young fellow-me-lad. Yes, an opportunity.”

“You want me to take some rats down to the science laboratory don’t you?” Barnaby replied with a resigned sigh.

“Blow me down, yes blow me down. Blow me down I say. This boy can see into the future. The future I say.” He sidled up to Barnaby and whispered into his ear, “See into the future hey….don’t suppose you know anything about horse racing would you?”

“How many?” inquired Barnaby.

“Just one ……the winner of the Gold Cup would be really nice.” Replied Mr Simpkins.

“No, not horses, how many rats?” exclaimed Barnaby.

“Just two. Two of my fine beauties. Two males. Waldo and Horace.” informed Simpkins.

“You name them.” gasped Barnaby. “You name them even though they are going to ……”

“Ssssshhhh,” whispered Mr. Simpkins through his rat-like teeth. He clasped his filthy hands over Barnaby’s mouth. “Ssssshhhh, Don’t say the D word. They’ll know, you know,” and he tipped a wink towards the cages at the rear.

Barnaby gently pushed the hand away. “Don’t worry Mr. Simpkins. I’ll be here at 11. I won’t let you down.”

“Fine. Excellent. I knew I could rely on you…..and remember, there’ll be something in it for you. Always is. Well done young fellow-me-lad. See you Saturday.” Said Mr Simpkins rubbing his dirty hands together.

Next along his walk to school came the clay pit. Just here, the path took a steep dip towards the valley floor.There was an easier way to get down this part of the hillside but the clay pit was a good shortcut , at the expense of just a little danger. It was a steep slope, covered with sticky, wet, orange clay. The significant challenge he faced was that, during winter time it tended to be very, very slippery. You had two options – you either had to focus on each and every footstep as if it would be your last, or you could use a more devil may care approach and sort of ski through the mud hoping that you were still upright and in one piece at the bottom. If you slipped or fell, and trust me you really didn’t want to take a tumble on the clay pit, then you’d end up cut, bruised and covered with sort of an orange coloured stain. Barnaby knew that a slip on the clay pit would result in a yelling from Ma, followed by a good hard beating with the belt.

“HOWMANYTIMESHAVEIGOTCHATELLYOU? Don’t (Slap!) go sliding down (Bop!) the clay (Pow!) pit (Zap!). Go (Smack!) the sensible(Thwack!) way! (Wham!)

Nigel Rivett’s bungalow was just off the normal and sensible route to school. Routinely, Barnaby tried at all costs to avoid meeting Nigel whenever possible – as it often meant trouble if he did. It was acknowledged by everyone that Nigel Rivettt was not the best fighter in the class - although he definitely had the edge on Barnaby. However, he certainly wasn’t as fast as Barnaby. In fact, in last year’s Sports Day Barnaby had beaten Nigel in the 100m race by at least ten metres. Thankfully no major incident had spoiled the relationship between the two boys. You see, Nigel was a bit of a wheeler dealer. He’d buy things off other children and somehow always managed to sell them on at a profit. Comic Club was his top wheeze at the moment. All the lads from his class would meet in his garden to swop comics. Barnaby wanted and needed to be in Comic Club because he was hardly ever able to afford new comics. Comic Club meant that you’d manage to get to read new comics every few weeks without actually spending too much money. The hard reality of the club, however, was that Rivett took his cut of the action :- approximately 10%. When you walked into his garden then straight away, Rivett would take one of your comics as his cut……AND, he’d always take the best one…..the cleanest one, the shiniest one, the one that still smelled of comicy newness.

Of course, there was another reason why he wanted to avoid Rivett today. It involved Barnaby’s recently sprained arm and a crepe bandage sling. Putting everything together, Barnaby decided to risk the Clay Pit, not knowing that it would prove to be quite a good decision. Well at least good in parts.