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
