The Complete Pratt Read Online Free PDF Page A

of four. Only Tommy Marsden could answer his question, because Tommy Marsden, black-haired, gaps in his teeth, dirt on his cheeks, rips in his shorts, paint on his jersey, scabs on his knees, was their leader. Tommy Marsden watched him like a hungry crow. Whim, not compassion, would decide his answer.
    If Tommy Marsden was a crow, Martin Hammond was an owl. A solemn, intense, little old man with yellowing shorts. Chalky White smiled his gleaming, beaming, more-the-merrier smile. I forget what Billy Erpingham did.
    ‘Can I play?’ repeated Henry.
    ‘All right,’ said Tommy Marsden, generous only in order to prove that generosity was his to give.
    Many years later, Martin Hammond wrote: ‘I don’t think there was a single one of us, however small, however deplorably apolitical the home environment that helped to shape us, who was not aware that an event of cataclysmic importance was casting its shadow over our little world and over the great world beyond our little world. I remember we played some kind of game on that fateful morning. I forget the rules. They don’t matter. What matters is that we felt a compulsion to play a game, a clean game, a game with rules, because we knew, with the untainted instincts of youth, that the world was embarking on an adventure which was definitely not a game, and that for many years to come there would be no rules,’ which was pitching it a bit strong, because Martin had been four at the time, and the clean game of his recollection consisted of racing dried-up dog turds along the sulphurous river.
    If those scruffy youths had ever heard of Christopher Robin and Poohsticks, they might have called their game Pooh-Dried-Up-Dog-Jobs. But they hadn’t. So they didn’t.
    Why did they use dog turds? Because it was exciting: some sink, others disintegrate, the element of chance is high. Because human beings are disgusting until lucky enough, in some cases, to be taught not to be. Because there were no trees in their environment, and therefore no sticks. Because, ultimately, as always, they were there.
    The line up on the footbridge was Martin Hammond (Labrador), Tommy Marsden (Alsatian), Billy Erpingham (I forget), Chalky White (Cocker Spaniel) and Henry Pratt (Whippet).
    Tommy Marsden lowered his left arm. Five tiny turds fell through the air. Henry’s dropped into a dark corner under the bridge. He leant over to watch its early progress. Maybe he leant too far in his excitement. Maybe Tommy Marsden pushed him. He followed the dog turds into the filthy water.
    He went into the Rundle head first. It was not the last river into which he would fall, but it was definitely the least prepossessing.
    The foul waters met over his head. He took a great gulp of untreated sewage and chemical waste. He was choking, bursting, dying. Tommy Marsden’s frail craft brushed his cheek. He struggled upwards, broke surface for a second, then sank again.
    Then hands were underneath him, he was being lifted out of the water.
    He was on the bank, upside down, gasping, heaving, retching, too concerned with survival yet to wail.
    Slowly he recovered. The other four children had disappeared, as children will, given the slightest opportunity.
    His two rescuers took him home. They were Fred Shilton, the lock-keeper, and Sid Lowson, that adequate domino substitute, suddenly proving less peripheral than expected.
    His mouth tasted foul, his left knee was bleeding, his clothes were dripping, he was filthy and soaking and cold, he was crying from delayed shock, but he was alive.
    The two men led him across the waste ground, over the canal, along the towpath, through the gate, and down the footpath until they came to Paradise Lane.
    Neville Chamberlain’s voice could be heard from the proliferating wirelesses: ‘… no such undertaking has been received…cannot believe there is anything more or anything different I could have…no chance of expecting that this man will ever give up…know that you will all play your