Make Room for the Jester Read Online Free PDF Page A

the thin planking. Then heavy footsteps and the sound of something being dragged.
    ‘A ghost!’ Maxie’s whisper broke the terrible silence that had fallen over us.
    ‘A bloody good swearer, too,’ Dewi said.
    ‘No ghosts in the afternoon,’ Gladstone said grimly.‘Might be Harry Knock-Knees. Quick, children, behind the stove there.’ They scuttled to the dark forward part of the cabin. ‘We’ll stand here,’ he went on. ‘Ready for him.’
    My heart was pounding against my chest. ‘Might be more than one,’ I said in a voice that sounded strange.
    ‘Twin ghosts,’ Dewi said. His eyes were shining. He had that top of the telegraph pole look.
    Gladstone held my arm. He stood shoulder and head above us, his waved blond hair shining. He looked like the Greek statues in the history books. I stopped trembling.
    The footsteps stopped and started again. A thud, as the man came down into the well, followed by more swearing. The man, whoever he was, stood outside the cabin door now, breathing heavily. Suddenly he began to sing in a high, quavering voice. It was a hymn – Yn y dyfroedd mawr a’r tonnau – and he was slurring note and word. We smiled at each other with relief. A boozer! Someone full of drink and music come to sleep it off. And he was Welsh, too.
    The cabin door crashed open. I saw a pair of brown trousers, brown shoes caked with harbour mud, a big brown suitcase. Then the man stooped to come in through the low doorway. He saw us, and remained stock still, his mouth sagging with shock. He came in slowly and made himself tall. He was breathing hard, one shoulder hanging lower than the other, a wreck of a man. He dropped the case to the floor with a thump. The children came running silently to Gladstone.
    ‘Gentle Jesus!’ the man said. ‘How many more of you on a gentleman’s yacht?’ He had a deep furry voice now.
    No one answered him. My tongue was starched tight to the roof of my mouth.
    ‘What’s this – a Sunday-school trip?’ He removed a green hat and threw it on the bunk. ‘My yacht, and half the children of Porthmawr aboard!’ He was thick-tongued all right, and we could smell the drink clear across the cabin. ‘Trespassing…’
    ‘Excuse me,’ Gladstone said, ‘but this boat doesn’t belong to anybody…’
    The man had very pale blue eyes which fixed themselves on Gladstone. They had a staring match.
    ‘You the leader?’ he asked.
    ‘Naturally,’ Gladstone replied.
    ‘By God,’ the man said, shaking his head. ‘By God, I’ll have to sit down. Puffed. Puffed.’ He took a cigar end from his pocket and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. He had a long, haggard face, the lines deep enough for scars. The skin was peeling across his temples. He had the remains of red hair.
    After a few minutes’ sitting on the bunk he was on his feet again, pointing at Gladstone. ‘Name?’
    ‘That’s my business,’ Gladstone said.
    The man sat down heavily. ‘Good God – all Wales is a secret society.’ He pointed at Maxie. ‘Your name, then?’
    ‘Mussolini,’ Maxie said. The children tittered.
    ‘Cheeky,’ the man commented calmly.
    ‘And mine’s Charlie Chaplin,’ Dewi said, ‘and we’re four against one.’
    ‘Gentle Jesus,’ the man said, ‘you in the South Wales Borderers, then?’
    ‘This is our boat,’ Gladstone said firmly. ‘You’ve no right…’
    The man stopped him with a wave of his hand. ‘That’swhere you’re wrong, kid. This boat is mine. My yacht…’
    ‘Prove it, then,’ Gladstone said. ‘Go on – prove it. Nobody’s owned this boat for years.’
    The man took a swig from a dark green bottle and showed yellowed teeth in a smile. ‘Take you to see my solicitors, shall I? The honourable Messrs Jones, Jones, Jones and Jones.’
    We didn’t know what to say to that, not even Gladstone. We knew all about the power of solicitors, though.
    ‘Got you, haven’t I? Can show you papers. You been having a den here, haven’t you? Trespassing