was the rat man, Mr. Simpkins. A dinky, thin man with curiously pointed features and protruding teeth. Teeth. Yes, but only three of them. He still had two teeth sticking outwards from his top gum, matched by one crooked, stained tooth on the bottom gum. You know how it is that people say that a dog’s owner often looks like their dog. Well, if you took one look at The Rat Man, you would have no doubt about his choice of pets. He started waving wildly at Barnaby through the window and then started knocking on the filthy glass.
“Oh no,” thought Barnaby, alarmed by the frightening sight, his shoulders sinking so low that his school bag slid slowly downwards to the muddy floor. He felt his heart sinking too, actually feeling it moving downwards, weighed down with with the miserable thought of what he knew what was coming next. The door to the rat farm burst open and there stood The Rat Man, dressed all in grey:- grey trousers held up by a bit of rope and a tatty grey pullover tucked in firmly at the middle. The legs of his trousers were also bound up with rope, “Just in case of an escaped rat I suppose.” thought Barnaby.
“Just the man I wanted,” wheezed Mr. Simpkins. “Indeed, the very man indeed. Tell me young Spruddge. How are you keeping these days? Busy? Just wondering, you free Saturday morning? About 11? You wouldn’t be free would you? Or would you?”
“What’s the problem Mr. Simpkins?” responded Barnaby nervously.
“Well, not a problem at all. No, not a problem. Maybe an opportunity though, an opportunity for you young fellow-me-lad. Yes, an opportunity.”
“You want me to take some rats down to the science laboratory don’t you?” Barnaby replied with a resigned sigh.
“Blow me down, yes blow me down. Blow me down I say. This boy can see into the future. The future I say.” He sidled up to Barnaby and whispered into his ear, “See into the future hey….don’t suppose you know anything about horse racing would you?”
“How many?” inquired Barnaby.
“Just one ……the winner of the Gold Cup would be really nice.” Replied Mr Simpkins.
“No, not horses, how many rats?” exclaimed Barnaby.
“Just two. Two of my fine beauties. Two males. Waldo and Horace.” informed Simpkins.
“You name them.” gasped Barnaby. “You name them even though they are going to ……”
“Ssssshhhh,” whispered Mr. Simpkins through his rat-like teeth. He clasped his filthy hands over Barnaby’s mouth. “Ssssshhhh, Don’t say the D word. They’ll know, you know,” and he tipped a wink towards the cages at the rear.
Barnaby gently pushed the hand away. “Don’t worry Mr. Simpkins. I’ll be here at 11. I won’t let you down.”
“Fine. Excellent. I knew I could rely on you…..and remember, there’ll be something in it for you. Always is. Well done young fellow-me-lad. See you Saturday.” Said Mr Simpkins rubbing his dirty hands together.
Next along his walk to school came the clay pit. Just here, the path took a steep dip towards the valley floor.There was an easier way to get down this part of the hillside but the clay pit was a good shortcut , at the expense of just a little danger. It was a steep slope, covered with sticky, wet, orange clay. The significant challenge he faced was that, during winter time it tended to be very, very slippery. You had two options – you either had to focus on each and every footstep as if it would be your last, or you could use a more devil may care approach and sort of ski through the mud hoping that you were still upright and in one piece at the bottom. If you slipped or fell, and trust me you really didn’t want to take a tumble on the clay pit, then you’d end up cut, bruised and covered with sort of an orange coloured stain. Barnaby knew that a slip on the clay pit would result in a yelling from Ma, followed by a good hard beating with the belt.
“HOWMANYTIMESHAVEIGOTCHATELLYOU? Don’t (Slap!) go sliding down (Bop!) the clay (Pow!) pit (Zap!). Go (Smack!) the sensible(Thwack!) way! (Wham!)
Nigel Rivett’s bungalow was just off the normal and sensible route to school. Routinely, Barnaby tried at all costs to avoid meeting Nigel whenever possible – as it often meant trouble if he did. It was acknowledged by everyone that Nigel Rivettt was not the best fighter in the class - although he definitely had the edge on Barnaby. However, he certainly wasn’t as fast as Barnaby. In fact, in last year’s Sports Day Barnaby had beaten Nigel in the 100m race by at least ten metres. Thankfully no major incident had spoiled the relationship between the two boys. You see, Nigel was a bit of a wheeler dealer. He’d buy things off other children and somehow always managed to sell them on at a profit. Comic Club was his top wheeze at the moment. All the lads from his class would meet in his garden to swop comics. Barnaby wanted and needed to be in Comic Club because he was hardly ever able to afford new comics. Comic Club meant that you’d manage to get to read new comics every few weeks without actually spending too much money. The hard reality of the club, however, was that Rivett took his cut of the action :- approximately 10%. When you walked into his garden then straight away, Rivett would take one of your comics as his cut……AND, he’d always take the best one…..the cleanest one, the shiniest one, the one that still smelled of comicy newness.
Of course, there was another reason why he wanted to avoid Rivett today. It involved Barnaby’s recently sprained arm and a crepe bandage sling. Putting everything together, Barnaby decided to risk the Clay Pit, not knowing that it would prove to be quite a good decision. Well at least good in parts.
Chapter 3.
The Deal.
Thankfully Barnaby managed to reach the bottom of the slope unscathed. On this occasion there had been a particularly slippery part about half way down but he had managed to skid past that not only without falling but actually looking quite cool; as though he was an accomplished downhill ski champion. It was quite a shame really that there had been nobody around to stare in wonder and applaud his breakneck do or die style - but hey ho. On the other hand, if he had slipped in front of a large critical audience, no doubt there would have many very willing to judge his performance or lack of technique.
As he continued on his familiar journey, he was just walking past the glove factory entrance when his sharp eye suddenly spotted it. A rare treasure indeed, just lying there glistening with morning dew - speckled here and there with flecks of dust. He looked around to make sure nobody could see him. No, to his knowledge, there was nobody around. Thankfully, this particular morning there would be no unseen witnesses. He reached inside his pocket and pulled out a small, black plastic bag. Moving efficiently in a rehearsed manner he knew the routine he was about to follow well after several years of practice.
Down.
Scoop it.
Turn it.
Twist it.
Knot it.
Pocket it.
All efficiently done, in one well rehearsed routine Anyone watching his movements would have been reminded of a fine tuned machine or of a graceful Russian ballerina – as he swiftly scooped into action. It was indeed a well planned routine built upon the experience of rehearsal in trying to make an unpleasant task into something that would even have impressed gymnastic judges. Ma Spruddge would be so proud of unexpected find. A bag of white. Maybe he’d now get an egg on Sunday? Nobody, not even vets, actually knew
