Treacle Walker, page 3
‘So what?’
‘Your visage is wan. If we may, let us go to the chimney and calm our thought.’
‘Why?’
‘You are a trifle furibund.’
‘Shurrup.’
They went to the house. Treacle Walker paused at the step. ‘May I enter?’
‘It’s up to you,’ said Joe.
‘It is not up to me,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Now that the stoning is done, neither I nor any other can cross save by your leave. May I enter?’
‘Have it your own way,’ said Joe. ‘You can come in if you like. It’s daft.’
They went in and sat facing each other across the fire basket in the chimney.
‘What is amiss, Joseph Coppock?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘What’s amiss?’ said Joe. ‘I’ll tell you what’s amiss. I shall. I shall that. You come here, you and your box and your pots and your donkey stone, and fetch in enough to make me frit to death. You’re on about bones and all sorts; and then you’re off, some road or other, and I can’t tell where I am. I’ve got a pain in my eye. I can’t see proper. And I go down the bog and get stuck; and this chap with no clothes on and a daft silly hat, he sits up in the water and he makes no more sense than you do. He says I’ve got glammeritis, and then Stonehenge Kit, he’s gone, and so’s my best dobber; and Whizzy’s with a Brit Basher and they’re after Kit and the mirror’s all wrong then he’s back in the picture. And there’s this here.’ Joe pulled the crumpled paper from his pocket and lobbed it across the fire basket. ‘What’s happening? What the heck’s up?’
Treacle Walker straightened the paper and looked at it.
‘Did you write this, Joseph Coppock?’
‘I was having my eyes tested –’
‘When?’
‘When they were being tested. And the man said –’
‘What man?’
‘The man in the room.’
‘Which room?’
‘Where I was having my eyes tested!’
‘Where was the room?’ said Treacle Walker.
‘It was – there,’ said Joe.
‘Who was the man?’
‘The man testing my eyes! Give over!’
‘I am but asking the question,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Who was the man?’
‘He was – I dunno. He said what I read wasn’t real. So I wrote it, but it still wasn’t real, he said.’
‘Yet it is,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘And how does it speak to you?’
‘It’s jumbled letters, same as they always are, but not like he said.’
‘Jumbled letters? “Hic lapis exilis extat pretio quoque vilis. Spernitur a stultis. Amatur plus ab edoctis.” Two catalectic hexameters. You have no Latin?’
‘No what?’
‘ “This stone is small, of little price; spurned by fools, more honoured by the wise.” My friend, you saw; yet you do not see.’
Treacle Walker leaned his head against the timber behind him and looked up into the stack.
‘Axis mundi.’
‘Eh?’
‘The chimney. It is the heart of all that is. The sky turns on it. It is the way between.’
‘Between what?’
‘The earth, the heavens and the sapient stars.’
‘It’s to let smoke out,’ said Joe.
Treacle Walker went to the door.
‘May I pass?’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Then I presume an affirmative.’
He crossed the step.
‘Joseph Coppock. When Thin Amren wakes and cuckoo calls,’ he opened his bag and reached inside, ‘look to your dobber.’ He put the glass alley into Joe’s hand and closed the door.
IX
Joe lay on the bank of the brook at the bottom of Big Meadow where there was a smooth piece of water near the bridge. He was watching his reflection. He lifted his hand. He could see that. He put his hand behind his head. The reflection did the same. He held his hand in front of him and peered between his fingers. The reflection did the same. He reached down and put his hand in the water. The reflection broke, and all he saw was his hand and arm in the brook. The water settled. Now he saw his face again.
‘And why are we bung-up and squinting like a bag of nails?’
Thin Amren was on the bank opposite, in the shade of an alder.
‘What are you doing? What do you want?’ said Joe.
‘I thought I’d take me a little walk.’
‘You said you had to keep wet.’
‘And so I must. But there am I in me bog, and I see you here, at the glamourie. And I’m thinking to be with you for a laugh and a crack; for I’m missing you so.’
‘I’m plundering about mirrors,’ said Joe.
‘Well, there are worse ways with a day.’ Thin Amren sat and put his feet on the bed of the brook. The water settled. Joe stared.
‘Why the gawk of a throttled earwig?’ said Thin Amren.
‘I can’t see your face in the water,’ said Joe. ‘You’re not there.’
‘That’s because I’m here,’ said Thin Amren.
‘Why can’t I see you?’
‘I own no looking-glass.’
‘That’s daft,’ said Joe. ‘And another thing. Why live in a bog?’
‘And if I didn’t,’ said Thin Amren, ‘should I not rot?’
‘And all that dreaming stuff.’
‘What else should a body do when he sleeps?’
‘How long have you been there?’ said Joe. ‘In the bog.’
‘A honeycomb of ages.’
‘How long’s that?’
‘From then till now. And you?’
‘What about me?’
‘How long have you been up in the fine chimney house?’
‘Always. I live there.’
‘And how is “always”?’
‘It’s – always,’ said Joe.
‘Well, that’s us suited, both,’ said Thin Amren. ‘You in your chimney. Me in me bog. Snug as a bug in a rug.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do you see yon whirligig of water there?’ Thin Amren pointed to an eddy below an alder root by the bridge. ‘He doesn’t move. But water, she goes by. Then what’s whirligig?’
‘I dunno. It just – is,’ said Joe.
‘Then what is brook?’ said Thin Amren.
‘It’s the brook.’
‘And brook was here yesterday,’ said Thin Amren. ‘And she’ll be here tomorrow. Whirligig stays. Though he’s not the same water. Then what is yesterday? What today? What tomorrow? Whirligig, what is he? What is brook?’
‘Oh, dry up,’ said Joe.
‘That’s the last I’ll be doing’ said Thin Amren. ‘I asked a question. Whirligig neither asks nor cares.’
‘You’re as bad as he is,’ said Joe. ‘Treacle Walker. He’s daft, too. Do you know him? He says he knows you.’
‘Treacle Walker?’ said Thin Amren. ‘Treacle Walker? Me know that pickthank psychopomp? I know him, so I do. I know him. Him with his pots for rags and his bag and his bone and his doddering nag and nookshotten cart and catchpenny oddments. Treacle Walker? I’d not trust that one’s arse with a fart.’
‘Well, I like him, anyroad,’ said Joe. ‘A bit. I think. Yes. I do. I like him a lot. He’s daft. I can’t get him to talk sense. And he pongs. He pongs; but he makes me laugh. Well, sometimes.’
‘And he comes when cuckoo calls.’
‘Does he?’
‘He does. And what is cuckoo?’
‘It’s a bird, fathead.’
‘A bird,’ said Thin Amren. ‘Oh, it’s you that has the knowing of it.’
‘When you hear it, it’s nearly summer,’ said Joe.
‘And beasts are bangled, and barns are bare. And the reiver comes over the hill.’
‘Eh?’
‘Cuckoo is a two-face bliss,’ said Thin Amren. ‘A bitter call. And I must get me fat head to me bog and me dreamings. Else, Whirligig, who’ll care for him? Now use both your glims. I’ve tellt you once, and I’ve tellt you twice, and I’ll tell you thrice. What sees is seen. I’ll tell you more. What’s out is in; what’s in is out. Don’t wear the clout. There! Aren’t I the poet! That’s a darling rhyme for a day.’
Thin Amren stood and walked along the bank and into the copse. Joe watched until he could not see; then went up to the house and lay on the settle and counted the joists and beams in the ceiling.
‘Whirligig.’ ‘Cycle pump.’ ‘Ask this Monday.’ ‘What sees is seen.’ ‘What’s out is in; what’s in is out.’ Barmpots. The pair of them.
He got off the settle and climbed the stairs to his bed, picked up a Knockout and began to read.
It was Our Ernie, Mrs. Entwhistle’s Little Lad. That was his second favourite. Ernie wore a big cap and had adventures with his chum, a caterpillar called Charlie, who never did anything but watch and say sarky things about what Ernie was doing. Then, in the last picture, Ernie always came home and said WHAT’S FOR TEA, MA? And his Pa, who had a big moustache and smoked a pipe upside down, always said DAFT, I CALL IT.
Joe turned the page to read Stonehenge Kit the Ancient Brit.
He was looking at his house; his house, with the embankment behind it, and Noony going past; a picture of his own house. At the side was OO-ER, CHUMS. WHAT’S WHIZZY UP TO NOW? NO GOOD, I RECKON. And Whizzy was walking along Big Meadow, with the Brit Basher carrying a club, and he was saying HEH-HEH! CACKLES!
In the next picture they were in the yard, and Whizzy said SPIFLICATE THAT THERE DOOR! And the Brit Basher said GOOD THINKING, GUV. SHEER GENIUS, THAT’S WOT IT IS.
In the next picture, the Brit Basher was standing in front of the door with his club lifted. But in the next the Brit Basher was turning away, and saying COO, GUV. LOOK. STEPS IS STONED. Then in the next it was Whizzy’s face, with his pointed hat jumping off his head, and him saying PSHAW! PAH! AND TCHAH! Then he was going round the house and peering in at the windows, but they were small, with mullions that made them too narrow for him to get through. GNASH, GROAN, SNARL, HIDEOUS HOWL AND YAH! said Whizzy.
The last picture was the house by itself at the top of Big Meadow, and someone was looking from the upstairs window. And at the side was WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, CHUMS? WAIT TILL NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT!
Joe scrabbled through all his comics, but that next week was missing.
X
Bang. Bang. Bang.
Three times the handle on the door.
Joe shot under the blankets and tugged them over his head.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He reached for his pillow and covered his ears.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
He was sweating. His eyes were shut. All he saw were swirls of purple on the black of his lids. He had no spit; the thud in his ears made the silence worse. He could not slow his breath.
Stillness.
He moved the pillow and pulled the blankets down to his nose and opened his eyes. The sun shone sideways in the window and the sky was bright. He sat up and listened.
Stillness.
Joe climbed down and moved over the floor, not letting the boards creak, to the edge of the window frame and looked out.
The pony and cart were under the pear, and Treacle Walker was on the path by the door, holding the round handle.
‘You daft beggar!’
Joe ran down the stairs and opened the door.
‘What are you at? Sounding like them lomperwhatsits!’
‘How else might one wield the ferrous weight?’ said Treacle Walker. ‘May one come in?’
‘Come in?’ said Joe. ‘Help your blooming self!’
He ran upstairs, grabbed his Knockout and down again. Treacle Walker was sitting in the chimney, looking into the stack.
‘What ails you, Joseph Coppock?’ he said. ‘What is wrong?’
‘Wrong? Me? There’s nowt wrong with me! It’s this!’ He threw the Knockout into Treacle Walker’s lap and sat down on the other side of the fire. ‘That’s what!’
Treacle Walker turned the pages of the comic. ‘It has humour,’ he said. ‘A nice wit. Charming vernacular. Ah.’ He was reading Stonehenge Kit.
‘Why’s the house there? Why?’ said Joe. ‘It’s a story! Knockout! A story! And it says find out next week! But next week’s missing!’
‘Has it been written yet?’ said Treacle Walker. ‘And who is in the window?’
‘It’s only a comic!’
‘ “Only”? The house is here, where we sit,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘And the house is there, where we read, is it not? What is out is in. What is in is out.’
‘That’s what he said!’
‘Who?’
‘Him down yonder, in the bog! He said it, too! Before you came!’
‘Thin Amren awake still? Thin Amren sleeps.’
‘Not now, he doesn’t,’ said Joe. ‘I was talking to him just the other minute. And he said that, same as you: “What’s out is in. What’s in is out.” He did.’
‘Thin Amren knows much,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Well he doesn’t reckon much on you.’
‘Alackaday.’
‘He knows about that bone thingy of yours. And this.’
Joe went to his museum and took out the jar.
‘Yes,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Many do.’
‘What is it?’ said Joe. ‘All the Poor Mans Friend and Bridport? What’s that about?’
‘Beach, Barnicott, Roberts, Bridport? They are foils for those that seek yet are not worthy to achieve. As you may be.’
‘I’m only asking what’s it for,’ said Joe.
‘That is the question few have asked,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘Why? And what’s it doing here?’
‘You chose it.’
‘I liked it. That’s all.’
‘It held the glamourie.’
‘The mucky stuff?’ He turned the jar. ‘It’s gone! There’s none left!’
‘You saw. You touched. You have. Is that not enough?’
‘If it’d fix my wonky eye, I’d be seeing everything same road round; not all sorts.’
‘Would you forgo the gift of both?’
‘Call that a present?’ said Joe. ‘I’m neither one nor t’other with it.’
‘Or are you more?’
‘Lay off.’ Joe slumped on the chimney sill. ‘I’m fit to skrike.’
XI
‘Consider the Bonacon,’ said Treacle Walker.
‘What’s that?’ said Joe.
‘The creature that passes by at the highmost of the sun.’
‘You mean Noony? She’s an engine; a train. It’s how I tell the time.’
‘How does a train, an engine, go?’
‘On wheels, of course. How the heck else?’
‘And how do the wheels run?’
‘On rails.’
‘My cart has wheels,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘It runs by crinkum-crankums, crooks and straights. Yet if I were to set it upon rails, as Bonacon, it would be by straights alone, or off the causeway into the ditch.’
‘Noony’s got a doings on the side of her wheels to keep her on the rails,’ said Joe. ‘Your cart hasn’t.’
‘The doings holds. It turns, yet does not move,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Bonacon needs both, for without the one the other is lost. Am I right?’
‘Oh, you and your mithering. Give over.’
‘Iron Bonacon or wooden cart?’ said Treacle Walker. ‘Which is the merrier ride? And tell me. Whither and whence the Bonacon? Where does it go to? Where is it come from?’
‘I dunno. It just – goes.’
‘And at each noon it travels the same path.’
‘Yes.’
‘How does it return?’
‘I’ve never thought,’ said Joe.
‘Does it run nidgetwise, as the sun?’
‘Search me.’
‘And do other Bonacons pass by, in either way?’
‘No. Else I couldn’t tell the time, could I?’
‘And what is your time?’
‘When Noony comes I know it’s now.’
‘ “Now”? How can there be Now?’
‘That’s a daft question,’ said Joe.
‘But is it?’ said Treacle Walker. ‘For at the very moment you have Now, it flees. It is gone. It is, on the instant, Then. Surely.’
‘You make no sense,’ said Joe.
‘Bonacon sees where Bonacon is and will be, and knows where it has been. And that is all. You, you know the moment and tell the time. But that is the doings, not the travel; not the wonder, not the sight.’
‘Lay off. I said.’
‘You ask for help. I give it.’
‘You bloody don’t!’
‘Then be the doings, Joseph Coppock. And let crinkum-crankums run their ways.’
‘Oh, forget it,’ said Joe. ‘What about you? Why are you here? Where are you from?’
‘Here on this Middle-Yard is good moundland enough,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘But my home is the Country of the Summer Stars.’
‘Why’ve you come? What do you want?’
‘Ragbone,’ said Treacle Walker. ‘That is my trade.’
At the door, the iron ring grated, the latch lifted, and the door opened. There was a footstep in the house.
XII
‘Now where’s he gone?’ Joe dreamt he was dreaming and he knew he was.
He opened the door and crossed the white step into the yard. The sun scudded from clouds and the wind was gentle. He went to the pear tree and sat in its shade. He looked up into the branches. The blossom had dropped long since. The pears were small and it was too early for wasps to be about.
He looked through the gateway, across the top of Big Meadow. The alders along the brook were burnished in the light. He saw the copse below.
Joe drowsed in his dream. There was the leaf smell of young poppies. Later the flowers grew tall everywhere all over, bright and different colours, for the one day before petal fall and the green of the heads then the brown rustle of seeds.
