bucket and shovel, collecting The Pure:- the dog poo which formed the key ingredient inside the leather tanning vat. Barnaby just waited until he was old enough to shoulder the spruddge. There he sat at the bare kitchen table as his mother sobbed and sobbed, doing his best to comfort her, helping her to blow her nose and wiping away her tears, the sort of tears that could fill an ocean.
They were both pulled back from their gloom by the sound of the spruddgers marching down the street, singing their spruddging song, on their way to their daily toil at the glove factory.
See the merry Spruddgers swirl,
give the mix, a tremendous twirl.
Squishing and scrunching and squeezing it through,
a really revolting repulsive brew.
See the merry Spruddgers swirl,
making the gloves for many a girl
or lady to wear at the finest ball
for her to beguile and entrance them all.
See the merry Spruddgers swirl,
As they watch their factory flag unfurl.
Remember our friends that fell in the mix
drowning’s the fate the vat inflicts.
Barnaby had heard that song so many times. It echoed along the brown side of the river most days as he wandered home from school.
“Doesn’t sound so good without your dad, does it.” snuffled Ma. “Missing his high tenor voice they are. Lovely voice he had did your dad. That song sounded happy when your dad was around even though they were marching to such a dreadful job.It brought a little joy into their troubled world. Sad now. Sad and and slow – more like a funeral.”
It certainly made Barnaby sad thinking that every day he heard it was one day closer to the time he’d actually join them and take his dad’s place.
“Ma. Remember the money that I had from the tooth fairy last Friday?” Barnaby queried tentatively.
“Lords above. You’ve never still got that ten pence. I’d have thought that a scoundrel like you would have had a hole burned in his pocket by now. What you keeping that for anyway? That young lass up the posh end? You can forget that right away. That Beth girl; far too posh for the likes of you.” Ma remarked with a sneer.
Barnaby sighed. “I was thinking of buying some eggs for both of us actually. We could have a nice eggy soldier breakfast ….. like when Dad was around.”
“Aaaaaaaargh!” screamed Ma as her face turned a shade of death. “YOU want to spend YOUR tooth fairy money on ME? After what happened to ME last time. You know that’s against the tooth fairy rule. Look at what happened to ME last time,” giving Barnaby a horrible toothless grin. “There I was, starving half to death after your father….that dozy lump….left us….and there I was with nowhere to go, so I took your tooth fairy money…… just to buy some bread……and why couldn’t he have taken more care with his spruddging anyway? …..Starving I was….we were….just for a loaf of bread…..and that very night, just as my head touched the pillow and I wakes up and not a single tooth in my head. Not a single one. It was the fairies it was. Mark my words, it was the fairies that did it. Oh yes, very nice and sweet they can be but they have a nasty side you now. A mean, nasty side. I’ll never be able to play my clarinet now, not never. You remember the rule me lad? Remember the Fairy Rule? Remember it well, and she gazed skywards and chanted.
fairy silver ‘neath the pillow fold,
is for the child alone to hold.
If silver goes to the daddy or mummy,
’til the day they die, they’ll be awfully gummy.
Barnaby didn’t quite know what to believe when it came to the tooth fairy. Lots of his classmates were convinced that they didn’t exist and that their parents sneaked the money under their pillows whilst they were actually sleeping. It all sounded very possible but it left Barnaby with a couple of questions like why on earth would Ma Spruddge leave money under Barnaby’s pillow when her purse held nothing but emptiness. Also, if it had come from her purse then why was she so certain that she wouldn’t take a share.
It was all so mysterious and odd. You know, you even got a receipt for a tooth. Barnaby felt in his pocket and there was his receipt together with his shining fairy money. The receipt read:-
“Finished? Then stop day dreaming and get yourself off to school and don’t forget, if you see any of The Pure along the way, you make sure you bring it back.” instructed Ma.
Barnaby nodded as he forced down his last spoonful of salty porridge. He grabbed his coat and struggled to get it on. He’d noticeably grown upwards last summer but thankfully not outwards. As a direct result, his arms were now longer than the distance between the coat’s arm-pits and the pockets. He could no longer put his hands in his pockets unless he bent his arms a little. His scarf; Barnaby loved it, as it used to belong to his dad was a deep green and blue of very old fashioned stripes. Just like his dad’s spruddge this had also been passed down through the family. Thankfully, Stanley Spruddge hadn’t been wearing the scarf on that fateful day. Although it had not one ounce of fashion or style attached to it, it kept Barnaby warm in the winter and anything that could do that was a real blessing.
Outside was dark and dreary. A light but persistent cold drizzle fell from the direction of the Hope Glove factory. Thankfully a light breeze was blowing towards the factory now making the air feel clearer and relatively odour less. He walked northwards, catching an occasional glimpse of the river as it made its way past the factory on its slow journey to the sea. He passed The Morgue; a dark, sinister place. He’d once asked Ma what they did in there.
“Where they store the dead bodies, ……..the ones that they manage to get out of the tanning vats, ………not like that dozy dad of yours. Those that die in suspicious circumstances too. They get put in there too whilst things get investigated.” Ma said more in a secret whisper than out loud. She then drew closer to Barnaby and again whispered in a hushed, secretive tones. “Last week, Edgar Spokeshave from up the road did his work experience there. His mum said that it had been very quiet for him. Sometimes…….too quiet. He’d wished it had been a bit more exciting. He’d have loved to have worked the night shift, but they wouldn’t let him”.
Next along his route there was The Rat Farm where an eccentric elderly gent actually bred rats. He arranged for them to be delivered to the local medical research centre to be experimented upon. This journey was strictly a one-way trip for the rats. Barnaby hated rats and he hated this particular part of his journey. The rats were always agitated as though they sensed the fate that awaited them. Always squeaking, always rustling about, never still. Barnaby never quite understood why the rat man ever bothered to farm rats, after all there were plenty running around the lower part of town.
The building itself was just an old tin shanty that looked dark and dirty. Cobwebs and grime covered the window frames. The mark of a stray football could clearly
