The Tightrope Walkers Read Online Free PDF Page B

grand.”
    “You’ll come?” said Holly.
    “Of course he will!” said Mam.
    She put it at the centre of the mantelpiece.
    Dad spat and cursed when he came home and saw it.
    “The Management and Draughtsmen!” he sneered.
    “Don’t,” said Mam.
    “Don’t what? You’ve said he’ll go?”
    “Of course he’ll go.”
    “Of course he’ll go. Of course he’ll swan about with the bosses and their bliddy bairns.”
    “It’s Christmas, Francis.”
    “An where’s the bliddy parties for the caulkers’ and the cleaners’ bairns? What about the parties in the double bottoms and the bliddy tanks?”
    She clicked her tongue. She put the card back above the fire.
    “Take no notice, son,” Mam said. “I’m very pleased for you.”
    Dad muttered, cursed under his breath.
    “Christmas in the bliddy drawing office.”
    Mam bought me a new white shirt and tie and a cardigan from the Co-op. She took me to Laurie’s Barbers in the town square for a haircut. On the day of the party, Dad woke me up. He’d calmed down by now.
    “Have a good time,” he said. “But divent get conned by them. Remember who you are and where you’re from and remember your own dad’s outside crawling in the vessel’s guts.”
    He grinned and kissed my brow.
    “Look out for me,” he said. “I’ll be looking out for you.”
    And he hurried out and I heard his running footsteps in the street.
    Bill and Holly came for me at lunchtime. She had a silver ribbon in her hair. Bill was in a tweed overcoat and trilby. We walked downhill, past the Christmas tree in the square, the turkeys in the window of Dodds Butchers, the piles of apples and tangerines in Bamling’s fruit shop. We waved to people we knew. We headed lower, across the footbridge over the railway line, towards the scents of the river, the din of the factories and yards, to the jibs of the great cranes that stood above the river. There were other fathers with other children, all washed and brushed like us. The pavements turned to cobblestones. We approached the high shipyard gates, the great arch above them bearing the name, SIMPSON ’ S , upon it. Beyond it were dark brick buildings, and then the cranes and the huge dark wall of a ship.
    The gatekeeper in his boiler suit came out of a cabin to us.
    “What do you think
you’re
diyin here?” he asked. “Get yersels back yem!”
    The children giggled.
    “Ye know what we’re here for, Mr. Martin,” called some keen-eyed girl.
    “What’s that, then?”
    “The
party
, Mr. Martin!”
    “Oh. It’s for the party, is it? Then ye’d better get yerselves inside.”
    He slid great bolts and locks and pulled the gates. They groaned and clanked and screeched as they opened.
    “Howay in,” said Mr. Martin. “Mek yerselves at yem.”
    We started going through.
    “Tek care, though,” he said. “There’s some lads in here that’ll gobble ye up if ye don’t watch oot!”
    Bill led us all up ornate metal steps. We came to a wooden door with AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY printed on it.
    “Ready?” said Bill.
    “Yes,” we said.
    “Then come inside.”
    We went through the door. The others filed in behind us. We entered a huge room with wide windows that overlooked the yard. The men grinned as the kids gasped: the half-built ship outside, so huge, so dark, so close. It blotted out the river, obscured the opposite bank, filled half the sky, filled half the world.
    There were decorations strung across the ceiling, a bright-lit Christmas tree in a corner. There were framed drawings on the walls: splendid finished ships that now sailed the seven seas, some of them a century or more old. There were photographs of famous launches.
    The draughtsmen unrolled great sheets of paper for us on massive room-long tables. They bore drawings: ships and bits of ships; hulls and decks and funnels and anchors and chains and gantries.
    Bill stood with us and directed us to see.
    “See?” he said. “Everything must be drawn before it can be made.