' SILVER '

And Tom Rigby

On the Cotswolds

Beautiful thoughts come tumbling

From the hill top of my mind

As I look down the steep incline

Onto the valley's wide green smile

 

The silvery streams ...

The friendly trees ...

The crooked hedgerows

And walled-in fields

All are there

Rich in beauty beyond compare

 

Sleepy houses on a distant brow

Gaze contentedly

( Or so it seems to me )

On the same glorious scene

... As I look dreamily.

GORDON HARDCORE WOODWARD

In the somewhat fanciful jargon of today, my friend Tom would have been described as an "early developer". The fact is, he had to be, for on his 14th birthday his headmaster called him into his study, wished him well, shook him by the hand, and sent him out into the fierce competition of the outside world very much a place of Men in those far off Forties. A hoped-for job with his father at Gloucester Docks fell through, and Tom was despondent.

 

"I'll try to work something out by tonight, Tom", said his father. "We'll have a talk about it".

 

Tom's father was, among other things, a part-time general dealer of sorts, with many tiny irons in the fire. Household effects cleared at no charge; Sunday dinner rabbits netted to order; and, when times were quiet, firewood sawn, chopped and sold from door to door in bundles.

 

That evening Tom and I met in his yard, an Aladdin's Cave of all the earthy things that made the very substance of our craved adventure. There was a tea chest here, an old trunk there, and inside, no doubt, the discarded remnants and secrets of un­known people's interesting lives, all laid bare for our scrutiny and conjecture. The burnished bantam cockerel, jauntily supervising, as ever, the unruly ladies of his harem, picking their ways into and over the shambles of timbers awaiting the discipline of the chugging petrol-driven circular saw; the nest of brand new kittens; the odd marauding rat; the cages in the shade of the shanty hen-house; and the fearless, nibbling pair of angora rabbits enjoying the good life in the peaceful sanctity of their cage, unconcernedly observing the perpetually interested, hungry ferrets, furtive and sadistic, imprisoned opposite them, in theirs.

 

But Tom was listless, and the magic of the yard which, for once, failed to per­meate his soul soon lost its effect on me as well. Before long we had turned our backs on the creatures, the creosote and the chaos of the yard, in favour of the shady, quiet orderliness of the kitchen, with its enormous old fireplace peacefully repos­ing under its newspaper wraps in silent confirmation of its summer redundancy. There, upon a stool on the cool flagstones sat Tom's father, carefully stitching his large, home-made elver net. We crept in and sat at the scrubbed kitchen table, Tom with his grave young face cupped in his hands; and we waited; whilst above us the unambitious flies gyrated endlessly around the lifeless gas mantle.

 

Presently the needles and twine were put away and Tom's father reached for the gilded biscuit tin which was part of the far end of the mantelpiece. Out came two gnarled lumps of the sweet, dusky chocolate stock which formed one of the perks of his job at the docks. We gnawed away whilst he sat reflecting.

 

"Tom", he said, "people are always wanting things moved. I think I've got an idea".

 

And so it was that Tom packed up his paper round at Stirlands, advised old Mr. Fowler the local greengrocer that he could no longer attend to his deliveries, and, with his accumulated savings and a little help, bought Silver. Silver was a dapple-grey pony, and with him came a light four-wheel cart. Into Tom's front room window went a card bearing the legend, "Light Hauling Done" - and Tom was in business.

 

The wily Mrs. Haines of the nearby secondhand shop recommended Tom with alacrity whenever the sale of a bulky item hinged upon its ease of delivery, as did the kindly, devout, one-eyed Mr. James, who kept a similar establishment further along the London Road. Business was soon steady, if not brisk.

 

Being a few months younger than Tom, I was caught in changing legislation and had to continue at school until the age of 15, but on Saturdays I sometimes helped him. By now he was swiftly assuming the manner and bearing of a grown-up workman and could produce a sunny smile to order: "From here to Westgate Street, Madam? I'd price that at three and sixpence ..." then a pause. Had he imagined that sharp intake of breath? "But to you, Madam, say two and nine pence."

 

It was essential that no job was lost, for he had a living to earn and bills to pay: Silver's stabling, his feed, his pasture.

 

Silver lived in an acre of quiet, springy paddock near Longlevens, now, alas, long since "developed", and one bright Saturday morning Tom and I set out to catch and harness him. As we approached, two on a bike, Silver was rolling in the long grass, at peace with the world.

 

"Come on, Silver" called Tom softly, and the horse looked over and stood up. "He knows my voice," said Tom, proudly, and Silver backed away a step.

placed his right hand, which held the loop of rope, behind his back, and Silver eyed him carefully.

 

"Come on, Silver", Tom urged, looking at his pocket watch and commencing the necessary sums to approximate the time. "I've got work to do".

 

Silver looked back coldly, as though to say "work for me, you mean" and backed away another step. Impatiently, Tom walked towards the horse. It turned and cantered off. Hesitantly, Tom followed, talking earnest reason to the animal as he went. He coaxed, cajoled, pleaded, ordered and finally scorned his four-legged friend, but to no avail. Eventually he returned to the gate, near despair. "I must be on time for my job," he said seriously, "it's important to me."

 

Meanwhile Silver had approached us in a wide arc, as though reluctantly resigned to doing the decent thing, having registered his protest. Anxious to encourage the apparent change of heart, and having no sugar lumps to hand, Tom tore off a tuft of grass and offered it to the grass-enveloped creature as though it were an olive branch. Silver ignored the offering but capitulated just the same, for reality had to prevail — the unspoken bargain was that he and Tom were a team, each responsible to the other.

 

Soon, Silver was trotting majestically down London Road, past the Almshouses, past Healey's ever-open Little Shop, with Tom at the reins as though born to it and me at his side. Our call done, we returned to Tom's place. Above the fireplace, tacked to the large wooden mantelpiece was a skirt of heavy dark cloth, some 15 inches deep. Tom's messages, scribbled onto scraps of paper would be pinned to this, and there were no more calls for today.

 

"Let's go ragaboaning" said Tom, and somewhat mystified I followed him out and onto the cart. Down to Alvin Street we went, with its maze of side streets.

Tom

Don Bullock.  October 2006