Joe lay on the bank of the brook at the bottom of Big Meadow where there was a smooth piece of water near the bridge. He was watching his reflection. He lifted his hand. He could see that. He put his hand behind his head. The reflection did the same. He held his hand in front of him and peered between his fingers. The reflection did the same. He reached down and put his hand in the water. The reflection broke, and all he saw was his hand and arm in the brook. The water settled. Now he saw his face again.
‘And why are we bung-up and squinting like a bag of nails?’
Thin Amren was on the bank opposite, in the shade of an alder.
‘What are you doing? What do you want?’ said Joe.
‘I thought I’d take me a little walk.’
‘You said you had to keep wet.’
‘And so I must. But there am I in me bog, and I see you here, at the glamourie. And I’m thinking to be with you for a laugh and a crack; for I’m missing you so.’
‘I’m plundering about mirrors,’ said Joe.
‘Well, there are worse ways with a day.’ Thin Amren sat and put his feet on the bed of the brook. The water settled. Joe stared.
‘Why the gawk of a throttled earwig?’ said Thin Amren.
‘I can’t see your face in the water,’ said Joe. ‘You’re not there.’
‘That’s because I’m here,’ said Thin Amren.
‘Why can’t I see you?’
‘I own no looking-glass.’
‘That’s daft,’ said Joe. ‘And another thing. Why live in a bog?’
‘And if I didn’t,’ said Thin Amren, ‘should I not rot?’
‘And all that dreaming stuff.’
‘What else should a body do when he sleeps?’
‘How long have you been there?’ said Joe. ‘In the bog.’
‘A honeycomb of ages.’
‘How long’s that?’
‘From then till now. And you?’
‘What about me?’
‘How long have you been up in the fine chimney house?’
‘Always. I live there.’
‘And how is “always”?’
‘It’s – always,’ said Joe.
‘Well, that’s us suited, both,’ said Thin Amren. ‘You in your chimney. Me in me bog. Snug as a bug in a rug.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Do you see yon whirligig of water there?’ Thin Amren pointed to an eddy below an alder root by the bridge. ‘He doesn’t move. But water, she goes by. Then what’s whirligig?’
‘I dunno. It just – is,’ said Joe.
‘Then what is brook?’ said Thin Amren.
‘It’s the brook.’
‘And brook was here yesterday,’ said Thin Amren. ‘And she’ll be here tomorrow. Whirligig stays. Though he’s not the same water. Then what is yesterday? What today? What tomorrow? Whirligig, what is he? What is brook?’
‘Oh, dry up,’ said Joe.
‘That’s the last I’ll be doing’ said Thin Amren. ‘I asked a question. Whirligig neither asks nor cares.’
‘You’re as bad as he is,’ said Joe. ‘Treacle Walker. He’s daft, too. Do you know him? He says he knows you.’
‘Treacle Walker?’ said Thin Amren. ‘Treacle Walker? Me know that pickthank psychopomp? I know him, so I do. I know him. Him with his pots for rags and his bag and his bone and his doddering nag and nookshotten cart and catchpenny oddments. Treacle Walker? I’d not trust that one’s arse with a fart.’
‘Well, I like him, anyroad,’ said Joe. ‘A bit. I think. Yes. I do. I like him a lot. He’s daft. I can’t get him to talk sense. And he pongs. He pongs; but he makes me laugh. Well, sometimes.’
‘And he comes when cuckoo calls.’
‘Does he?’
‘He does. And what is cuckoo?’
‘It’s a bird, fathead.’
‘A bird,’ said Thin Amren. ‘Oh, it’s you that has the knowing of it.’
‘When you hear it, it’s nearly summer,’ said Joe.
‘And beasts are bangled, and barns are bare. And the reiver comes over the hill.’
‘Eh?’
‘Cuckoo is a two-face bliss,’ said Thin Amren. ‘A bitter call. And I must get me fat head to me bog and me dreamings. Else, Whirligig, who’ll care for him? Now use both your glims. I’ve tellt you once, and I’ve tellt you twice, and I’ll tell you thrice. What sees is seen. I’ll tell you more. What’s out is in; what’s in is out. Don’t wear the clout. There! Aren’t I the poet! That’s a darling rhyme for a day.’
Thin Amren stood and walked along the bank and into the copse. Joe watched until he could not see; then went up to the house and lay on the settle and counted the joists and beams in the ceiling.
‘Whirligig.’ ‘Cycle pump.’ ‘Ask this Monday.’ ‘What sees is seen.’ ‘What’s out is in; what’s in is out.’ Barmpots. The pair of them.
He got off the settle and climbed the stairs to his bed, picked up a Knockout and began to read.
It was Our Ernie, Mrs. Entwhistle’s Little Lad. That was his second favourite. Ernie wore a big cap and had adventures with his chum, a caterpillar called Charlie, who never did anything but watch and say sarky things about what Ernie was doing. Then, in the last picture, Ernie always came home and said WHAT’S FOR TEA, MA? And his Pa, who had a big moustache and smoked a pipe upside down, always said DAFT, I CALL IT.
Joe turned the page to read Stonehenge Kit the Ancient Brit.
He was looking at his house; his house, with the embankment behind it, and Noony going past; a picture of his own house. At the side was OO-ER, CHUMS. WHAT’S WHIZZY UP TO NOW? NO GOOD, I RECKON. And Whizzy was walking along Big Meadow, with the Brit Basher carrying a club, and he was saying HEH-HEH! CACKLES!
In the next picture they were in the yard, and Whizzy said SPIFLICATE THAT THERE DOOR! And the Brit Basher said GOOD THINKING, GUV. SHEER GENIUS, THAT’S WOT IT IS.
In the next picture, the Brit Basher was standing in front of the door with his club lifted. But in the next the Brit Basher was turning away, and saying COO, GUV. LOOK. STEPS IS STONED. Then in the next it was Whizzy’s face, with his pointed hat jumping off his head, and him saying PSHAW! PAH! AND TCHAH! Then he was going round the house and peering in at the windows, but they were small, with mullions that made them too narrow for him to get through. GNASH, GROAN, SNARL, HIDEOUS HOWL AND YAH! said Whizzy.
The last picture was the house by itself at the top of Big Meadow, and someone was looking from the upstairs window. And at the side was WHAT HAPPENS NEXT, CHUMS? WAIT TILL NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT!
Joe scrabbled through all his comics, but the Knockout that followed was missing.