Chapter Two “ELEPHANT’S NEST UP A RHUBARB TREE”
KNEE-DEEP IN the canal, Alec grabbed wildly for the weeds and grass that grew on the bank. He lost hold of his school bag. His first clutch was on a bunch of nettles. He yelled, dropped back and grabbed again. This time, he dragged himself on to the bank with a great heave and sat down to work out how much damage had been done. It was a disaster all right. His trouser leg was coated in thick greasy slime up to the knee and so were his sock and trainer. He had to admit that he smelt terrible. He suddenly saw his bag slowly sinking out of sight into the ghastly depths of the canal. Lying flat on the towpath, he stretched out his arm and just managed to reach the handle and pull the bag out. The canal, reluctant to let go, made a rude, sucking noise.
Alec stood up and did his best to clean the satchel, which was fairly easy, and then his clothes, which was more difficult. A handful of grass took off the worst, but five minutes of frantic rubbing still left his trousers looking grotty and smelling worse. “Bowden,” he muttered, “you’ve put your foot in it.”
There was nothing to do but go home. His arrival would be at the most disastrous time, with Dad (saying nothing, but looking grim), Mum (looking grim and saying a lot) and his sister Kim, home from the biscuit works (laughing her head off). But there was no getting out of it. Forward, Bowden!
He crossed the waste ground to the fence. Here again, he carefully counted the boards to find the loose one only he knew about, pushed it forward. With a grunt and wriggle he was out at the foot of the slope below the council houses. No one was about, though it was a fine evening. From the windows came the white glow of televisions switched on, the clatter of cups and plates, and other pleasant sounds of people enjoying their tea without a care in the world.
Was there a chance, Alec wondered as he reached the bottom of his street, of getting in through the front door and sneaking straight upstairs to his bedroom, so avoiding the kitchen and the reception committee? It was a wild hope, he knew. Front doors on the estate were opened twice in a lifetime, for weddings and funerals, and to go in that way would be impossible without knocking. So it was round the corner of the house to the kitchen door. Alec braced himself to go in.
“Psst, Alec lad.”
The voice came from the green and white caravan parked in the back yard. One side rested on a wheel, the other side rested on a pile of bricks built up under the axle. Dad was always threatening to mend it, but never did. The small side window of the caravan opened and a round, red face with wild, white hair peered out.
“Alec lad. What have you done?”
Alec relaxed.
“Oh, Granddad, you made me jump.”
“I don’t wonder. You were trying to sneak in, weren’t you?
Alec nodded.
Granddad’s face disappeared from the window and the caravan door opened. An arm stretched out, beckoning, and Alec, with one eye on the kitchen door, slunk in, while Granddad closed the caravan door after him.
Inside the heat was terrific and the air was blue with pipe smoke and foul with the fumes of an old oil heater. More heat came from a small soldering iron which was slowly growing red at the side of the fire. Through the fog Alec could see Granddad perched on one of the bunks. His thin old body was dressed in the remains of a braided dressing-gown and a pair of striped pyjamas. Displaying a row of broken teeth he grinned at Alec. On the folding table next to the bed were a plate, a loaf of bread, a half-opened tin of pilchards and a jug of beer.
“Hallo, Granddad, what are you soldering?” asked Alec, forgetting his troubles for a moment.
“I’m not soldering, you daft ha’porth, I’m mulling,” replied Granddad, and with that he seized the hot soldering iron and plunged it hissing into the beer jug. A cloud of steam and a strange smell rose to join the general fug inside the little room. Granddad held up the jug. “Want a taste?” he asked, but Alec shook his head hastily.
Granddad poured himself a glass, drank deeply and then wiped his mouth primly on a paper handkerchief he took from his dressing-gown sleeve.
“Now, lad, if you’ll give me your breeches, I’ll clean ’em up for you. I can see you’ve been in the canal. Don’t argue. Take your trainers off and put them by the fire here, while I use the meths on your other clothes.”
“But Granddad,” Alec protested.
“By the time we’ve done that, you can sneak in through the kitchen because they’ll all be in the front room.”
“How do you know, Granddad?”
“Because there’s trouble, that’s why. Your brother Tom, his wife and the baby are going to move back in with us. They’ve lost their place and that means rearrangements and people shifting round.”
Alec’s heart sank. This was truly the most disastrous day he had ever suffered. For the news meant one thing to him. Tom and his family would be given the second bedroom, Kim would have to move into Alec’s little bedroom at the back, and that meant Alec would be moved up to the boxroom. For anyone who thinks a boxroom is a place where you keep boxes, it’s not. A boxroom is a room like a box; it’s a space at the top of the stairs, with a door to stop the bed from falling downstairs. It’s a place where they train men for working in midget submarines. Alec had slept in the boxroom for years until brother Tom moved out. Now, disaster of disasters, he would have to lose his own bedroom and go back there.
Granddad stretched out a thin hand and ruffled his hair. “Come on, lad. Cheer up. There’s plenty worse off. Give us your trousers.” Alec handed them over and sat up on the other bunk while Granddad got out a bottle of methylated spirits and set to work rubbing the stains on Alec’s trousers. As he worked, the old man began to sing, half under his breath.
“Oh, the elephant is a dainty bird,
It flits from bough to bough,
It builds its nest in a rhubarb tree,
And whistles like a cow.”
As Granddad sang, thoughts of disaster began to fade from Alec’s mind…
“Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…
Elephant’s nest up a roobub tree,
Ha, ha, ha, hee, hee, hee…”
Suddenly Granddad sniffed.
“There’s a funny smell in here, lad.”
Alec stared.
“You must be joking, Granddad. There’re fifty funny smells in here.”
“Nay, lad, an extra funny smell. Oh, Lord, your trainers!”
Granddad dropped the rag he was using to clean Alec’s trousers and turned to the oil stove from which a thick brown haze was rising.
“Oh no!” cried Alec.
Oh no, indeed. Half the side of one of his trainers was burned through and the other one was singed. Granddad saved Alec’s sock with a quick snatch but the damage was done. Life, thought Alec, had become a disaster area.
“Don’t fret, lad. I’ll tell your Mum what happened and buy you another pair,” said Granddad.
“No, you won’t,” protested Alec. He wouldn’t let Granddad spend his pension on new trainers. “I’ll have to tell Mum myself. Perhaps I’ll get our Kim to lend me some cash and buy myself a pair.”
“Anyway, lad, your trousers are all right now. But don’t stand too close