PUNCH.

Otago Witness, Issue 3885, 28 August 1928, Page 81

PUNCH.

By

Ethel F. Heddle.

Punch stood at the open half-door of the stable in the mews, looking across the cobbled space in the chilly dusk. An old man, with .the high nose of the famous jester and his mild, beneficent eyes, he had always been called “ Punch ” from a. mere lad, arid scarcely knew himself under any other appelation. Judy, the dog, was outside the - stable, grumbling and muttering in his dreams over an imaginary cat —the eat which had the temerity sometimes to cross his path, as cats- will, and leap on a wall and arch a defiant back in passing. Punch was coughing a good deal, and his colour was not good. He had been permitted to stay on in the stable after his master gave it up and in the interim before it was let again. When it was let, Punch did not quite know what he would do, but the poor take short views of life, and the very sufficient evil of the day is enough for them. By and by he would get ; -“the pension,” and people were kind to poor,, good-natured old Punch, Everyone knew him, even the police on the beat. • He stood anxiously now looking across the courtyard. * ?'•“ It’s that boy H’ he muttered. Punch, like many solitary people, had a way of speaking to' himself. “ It’s that littl*

scamp Binky! He’s got in with a bad lot . . . and if he don’t mind he’ll be copped I” He went back into the stable then, and closed the half-door. A horrid draught blew under, it, and it was a bitterly cold night. Punch had a nasty cough, his heart was bad and his breathing, and his only covering was a pile of old horsecloths in the corner. All very well in summer, this stable—but in winter ! And no means of heating it! Yet it w’as not of himself Punch was thinking, but of the boy Binky. There had been an odd friendship between them. Binky had a merry eye and a sunny laugh. He had done odd jobs for Punch in the old man’s more prosperous groom days, and when things were very bad with him in his rambling life. Binky sometimes

But of late he had got in with a bad lot; men who stole cars and got off in them—bad men, Punch knew, and the boy had “ got in far ” with them. He was afraid Binky was with them tonight. And there had been a bad car robbery, and a policeman had been shot, Where was Binky? e Punch drank a little cold tea and nibbled at a piece of bread and cheese and “marge.” He had no appetite. He sat with his hands clasped round his old knees, shivering and coughing, and thinking only of Binky. If only he could get the boy away to Bracebridge, the sunny little village of red cottages, where Punch’s sister, Mrs Hackett — Susan Hackett —-had a tiny shop! She sold stationery, postcards, and sweets—mouldy sweets in dusty boxes—but she

to Punch that she needed a man to sweep out the shop and tend the garden and pig. She was “ rheumaticky ” and not so spry. If Punch could come—she enclosed the fare—and she fold him how to come. Walk to Barnet, and get the motor bus there, and then change t.r Bracebridge. There was the little room under the “ lean-to,’’ food, and a few shillings. Punch knew he could not go. He coughed too much, and was quite “ staggery ” of late, and he could not even sweep out the shop and carry parcels.

But Binky! If he could only get Binky out of London, away from temptation and those men with their cheap, flashy clothes and cigars, and facile good humour, and lack of all morals. “ If Binky would turn up! Had he anything to do with this last affair? Punch was dreadfully afraid he had. Binky knew this flashy Sam Tredwell, and Sam Tredwell was “wanted.”

Punch fell into a kind of uneasy doze, and slept till he was roused by a faint tap on the door. He sat up. London—gay, midnight, dancing, laughing, rich .London —went gaily on all around. The mews was quite close to the West End; but it was very late. It was a clear night of stars now, and Punch could see them as he went stiffly to the half-door and opened it- A bitter wind blew in, and he closed it; but someone slipped in through the dark, and said in a would-be cheerful voice: “ Well, old fruit! Wot’s doing in vour line?” “ Binky! ” He pulled the boy down in the dark. He could not see him clearly, but he knew the voice—a desperately cheerful voice. Punch heard it, but he* diagnosed a note of fear behind it—fear and uneasiness.

“ I’ve been—-wondering about you,” the old man said. “ Binky, wot ’ave you been up to? You —you’ve not been —with that lot—with Sam Tredwell? Say you ’aren’t, Binky! ” “ Well, that’s just wot I ’ave, Punch,” Binky said in a lowered voice. “ Say, old bean, you ’aren’t a bit of somethink to eat, ’are yer? I’ve been lying on a load of coal, in a shunting train . . . ’iding! . . . and I’m just about done in! Got a bit o’ kipper, or anythink? All the way I’ve been thinking of a bit of kipper! Lordy! -it would taste good! ” Punch gave him all he had left of the bread, coughing chokingly, and sat down while Binky ate it ravenously. “ You—you—didn’t ’elp ? You didn’t see ’em do it? ” He got it out most tremulously. “Tell me the truth, Binky! Mind wot I told you about speaking the truth! And no blinking lies. Mind wot I told you of my old mother’s words, when she lay a-dying. ‘ You stick to the truth, Punch,’ she says. ‘ You never tell no lies! You stick to the truth, and God ’E’ll stick to you! ’ Binkv, von tell me ... you didn’t . . .? ’Elp?”

“ No, I didn’t; but I sat in the car —and I—l seed it,” the boy shivered. “ And I think—they’re after me! But I didn’t do nothink. Strike me blind, Punch, I didn’t! ”

“ Wot you’ve got to do is to get away then, Binky,” Punch said earnestly. “ Get away out of London—away from these men. Sain’s clever. He’ll manage to get off. But you’ve got to get away —right out of London! And I’ve got a chance for you, Binky, and I’ll tell you—and I’ve got your fare! You’ll go to Bracebridge, and ask for Mrs ’Ackett—she ’as a shop, and you’ll tell ’er Punch sent you. Tell no lies, Binky. Say Punch, ’e couldn’t come ’isself, ’is cough is that bad. And you’ll serve ’er hv, .est, Binky? ” He stopped then, for Judy had raised his ugly, nondescript head, and gave a low rumble of growl, which meant that someone was coming. Punch looked up and hastily took the boy by the arm. His nerves pricked. He scented danger. He thrust Binky, who was very small and lean and badly nourished, behind an old harness box in the corner, and then he sat tight and waited. Steps came across the courtyard—firm, important steps, with the majesty of the British law behind them, and then came a low tap. “ You there. Punch ? Asleep ? ”

“ It’s P.C. Jack Mearns,” Punch told himself, and the high colour in his old face faded a little. “ Yes, I’m in, Jack,” he said, and got to the door in the dark and half opened it. “ Wanting me ?” he said cheerfully in his high old voice. “ Wot ’ave pore old Punch been up to, Jack?” “He seems to be coughing a good deal, Punch! ” P.C. Jack Mearns said good humouredly. He liked the old man, and was sorry for him. No one ever suspected Punch of anything. As well suspect the legislators, who sat not so very far off, making British laws. “Got a bad hoast, haven’t you? We call it ‘ hoast ’ in Scotland. But, I say, Punch, you haven’t seen that imp Binky anywhere about, have you? They say he has been seen with that scoundrel Sam, and we’re on his track. I’d like to get hold of that boy! He’s wanted for pilfering, too, at a baker’s. A little taste of jail would do him no harm. Haven’t seen him round, have you? He could tell us where Sam is.” Punch drew a few difficult breaths. His eyes were physically distressed, and the honest policeman felt sorry for him. A battle was going on in Punch’s soul, the kind of battle few, perhaps, in these lax days would understand. Punch was old-fashioned, you see, and he had never forgotten his mother’s words. It had been his pride never to lie—and to remember his promise. He used to think, nil moa xx» ilm Ixiixrl IxaX£ liorKi

tween waking and sleeping, when life burns low and the other world seems as near to us as the hard, unlovely day, that he would be glad to tell her—(if it was true, and one will be able to tell then) how he had remembered! But— Binky caught! Taken to the police court, even to prison—hardened, embittered with the prison taint, the smell of it on him always! Pilfering! He must have been starving! A boy is so hungry! Oh, did they know how hungry a boy could be!

“Seen him anywhere about, Punch?” P.C. Jack’s voice was a little peremptory, and his . accent from the North was more distinguishable- Punch took his resolve.

“ No, I ain’t seen iiim, Jack,” he said wearily. He had not! He could see nothing in the stable!

“ Oh, well,” the policeman moved majestically away from the door. “ I’ll be off, then. If you do, let me know. I’d like to get him—might be a step for me! Like to see me on the posters, Punch—‘ P.C. Jack Mearns secures arrest,’ etc. I might get married on head of it.”

He laughed, and strode with majesty to the door. Punch coughed on, and the kindly policeman looked back when he got to the slummy street, which opened on to a very aristocratic quarter close b y- “ Seems to me that old boj’ is near the last bunker,” he declared. “ Poor old Punch. Wish I’d offered him a shilling! Cold as charity in that stable. He ought to be in hospital, but they all fly from the very idea.” Punch waited till the firm steps died away, and then he called softly. “ Binky! Binky! ” and Binky crept out. The boy was white and shaking; the freckles stood out on his thin face. “ I thought I was copped,” he whispered. “ Oh, I sye, Punch, you was a topper! To sye as you never saw me! They’d ’ave ’ad me in the orfice, and made me tell ’em! And Sam ’nd ’ave killed me when ’e got out! ” He trembled as he spoke, then looked at the old man. “ And now ’e’ll be off—and not back on this beat! ” “ Till you’ve got off, Binky,” Punch ■whispered. “ See ’ere, lad, ’ere’s the coin. You walk to Barnet, and get the bus she speaks of. I think you’ll do it. You change buses. Got it right, Binky? They’ll never think of a plice like Bracebridge, and Susan ’Ackett she’ll see to you! any pal o’ mine. l—l’m soriy I ’ad to —tell the lie, Binky; it nigh choked in my throat, it did! But it wasn’t all a lie! I never seen you, Binky! I don’t know as I see you now.” He gave a faint, weak laugh. “And I think mother, she’d understand maybe. You be getting off, Binky, afore it gets light. There’s tuppence in my old coat; you could get -yourself a cup of ’ot coffee at the stall, besides the fare. And you’ll promise to go? And to stye? Better sye: ‘ Strike me blind, Punch, I'll go and I’ll stye! ’ ” His eager voice, something in the old face disturbed and perplexed Binky. He could see faintly by the little light that fell in now, pale and cold and virginal, through the skylight above. The boy repeated the words with a half sob,* and Punch sat and nodded his head. He watched till Binky took the pence from the old coat; then he sank back on the poor pretence of a bed.

“ A cup of corfee would set you up,” he muttered gaspingly. “Go now—'ot corfee.”

“ I'd get one for you, Punch,” Binky said earnestly. “ I’d carry it back—l could, old fruit.” “No, no! You get orf now—afore it gets light. You get orf! ” He did not say anything more. Great waves seemed rearing up all around, and a strange numb forgetfulness. It was all he could do to get breath. Binky stood and looked down at him helplessly. “ I’ll be going then, Punch,” he said, with a catch in his voice. The old man smiled, and Binky opened the half-door carefully and slid out. No one was in the court. It was the deadest hour of the night, for dawn would soon “ creep down the street like a frightened girl,” and there was already a faint pale daffodil glow in the east. Binky crept down the street, past the dust bins, and the refuse, and the prowling cats. Even the voices of the last shabby revellers were hushed. Sleep, the all-pitiful, the merciful, held them in her arms.

Binky walked to the coffee-stall and got his cup. Two men were talking in husky voices about a race. He walked on and on and on—past the river, and the wonderful facade of the Houses of Parliament, past the ghostly statues in Trafalgar Square. He lost his way once or twice, but he got there at last, and when London was w-aking and turning round, with a mighty yawn, like a sleepy giant, Binky caught the first motor bus and climbed in.

He was thinking of old Punch and wondering uneasily how he w’as —what he-would do. His last twopence!—and —that cough—the curious leaden look of his face, the lie he had told—the lie—to P.C. Jack Mearns—about him, Binky! He roused from his doze when a workman touched him on the shoulder.

“ Going to get out ’ere, sonny ? ” It was 11 o’clock when Binky w'alked into' Mrs Hackett’s shop and gave her Punch’s message, and she looked at him over her spectacles. She had been sorting some very mouldy sticks of licorice in a box. The smell of frying bacon came from within. She was a plain woman, with kind eyes. “ Well, well! ” she said. “If Punch says you’ll do, you’ll do! I’ve got a pig to mind, and hens. I expect you’d xlrx. Axxxl txzlwxu ur\u Llxx* LxxxlJ

you run in and say, ‘ Wot’s your plea< sure, ma am ? ’ See ? Can you remember, ‘ Ma’am’ or ‘ sir ’.” “ Yes, ma’am.” . Come on then, and get a bit of some-: thing to eat. I call it my ‘ elevens.’ ” lhe sun shone in the tiny room behind the shop; there was a picture of Queen Victoria on the wall; and a horsehair sofa, and a stand of wax flow r ers-. Binky looked about him. A red path led down to the pig’s abode at the end of the garden, an old red brick cottage on either side leaned over confiding! v and protectingly. It was oddly, de, liciously quiet. Binky gazed about him. and thought of P.C. Jack Mearns, and the arm of the law, and Sam’s evil face. He felt that this was heaven. Heaven! Safety! * -X- * The dawn was gold in the sky, even o\er London, and a light fell down on Punch’s face. He lay there in the chill, and drifted out in that vast sea whose waves break restlessly around all our lives—waiting! He was thinking rather troublouslv about his mother, and that lie—that lie*! When he could think of anvthing—when he came back to life now *and then—he remembered it. Only an old man, who had held to one ideal, and who had sacrificed it—for q, boy’s sake. “11l tell ’er—l’ll explain!” he whis« pered once. “Poor little—blighter! Seems as if I ’ad to . . . Seems as if I couldn’t let ’im down!” The dawn brightened and flushed over the great river, and the statues in the Square—the ghostly figures of those who had served England, and whom Englan/’ remembers—loomed out at last in th«.jH clear light of dav. About 12 o’clock P.C. Jack Mearns, pausing on his beat, thought he would look in on old Punch. He hadn’t liked the old man’s look. Also Sam was caught, and he wanted to tell Punch. He opened the door and saw Punch, as lie thought, fast asleep. He stooped and looked— and knew. “Poor old man!” he said. “But ha looks content—gey content. Queer!” He went away to “ report.” And Punch lay, with Judy beside him, looking indeed wonderfully content. I think he was content. And I am sure, if he met her and told her (“I have heard, you say, “ Shakespeare writes, . That we shall see and know our friends in heaven.’ ”) that his mother would not blame him. For they must see so clearly, in the other world, what perplexes us here!