10

 

"We'll have to go. We'll be picked up if we wait any longer." Bingo spoke reluctantly.

The others twisted in their seats and looked over the bows of The Silver Belle Flower to the distant bank. The far side of the River Thames was clearly visible and the silhouettes of the factories and gasometers stood sharp against the morning sky. From time to time the rowers clipped the water with the blades of their oars so as to stay on station opposite the Wandle. Boats and barges were passing by in increasing numbers and at any moment a police launch might appear, checking that all was well on Wandsworth Reach. The city was awake; from high above, on the Wandsworth Bridge roadway, came the unbroken hum of traffic on its way to work.

The survivors shifted their attention and gazed dejectedly at the wasteland that spread out on either side of their companions, but they saw no movement. Even the Wendle patrols had returned underground, shaking their fists at the five Borribles who sat offshore waiting and hoping, their hearts heavy with a great sadness.

"They didn't stand a chance of getting away," sighed Vulge, "but I bet they gave a good scrap at the end."

"I hope Napoleon got back," said Bingo. "I hope they were all together when . . ." His voice trailed off and there were tears in his eyes. "Come on, we must go. There's no point in us getting caught as well."

Sydney, Chalotte, Stonks and Bingo leant forward to row. Vulge sat in the stern and navigated, searching for a group of two or three barges where they could hide through the daylight hours and clean themselves of the Wandle mud that covered them still. The tide, strong as a waterfall, bore the boat through the cathedral arches of Wandsworth Bridge and Vulge saw what he was looking for almost immediately. He directed The Silver Belle Flower into a tiny haven of motionless water and hardly bothering to scrape the caked slime from their clothing the Borribles huddled together in the bottom of the boat in an attempt to keep a spark of warmth glowing amongst them.

It was deep winter; they had neither food nor blankets and the damp river wind gnawed at their shrinking bodies. All day they tried to sleep but the pangs of hunger and the hateful cold kept them restless and their wounds throbbed without respite.

Night rescued them. They watched the sun go down, blurred crimson into black smoke, and they took up their oars once more and warmed themselves by rowing. Through they were but four to power the strokes now the swift current of the Thames carried them homewards and though they were clumsy and stupid with fatigue and hunger they brought The Silver Belle Flower safely down the river. Just before dawn the next day the boat slid between the high-masted sailing barges and the embankment wall and ended its journey on the solid wedge of floating rubbish that had been marooned from the main stream for so long. They had returned to Battersea Churchyard. They fell forward on the oars, spent, bedraggled, filthy.

"Battersea," said Bingo, almost weeping with pleasure. "I can hardly believe it, lovely Battersea."

They helped each other over the high river wall and stood in the quiet churchyard and looked up at the green steeple. "It's a good feeling," said Vulge, "being back where you belong, with a good Adventure behind you, and friends to remember."

"It must be one of the best feelings there is," agreed Chalotte.

They went from the churchyard and out into Church Road. There was not much traffic about and not many people, which was just as the Borribles wanted, for they could not have passed as ordinary children. They had lost their helmets in their many fights and their pointed ears were plainly visible. They were covered in the dried mud from the Wandle swamps and most strange-looking of all were the Wendle waders they wore, and the orange roadjackets.

"We'd better get off the streets," said Bingo, "before we're spotted."

Opposite to the Old Swan Pub, near the church, were a couple of Borrible houses, derelict and falling apart, their window spaces boarded up with rough planks and corrugated iron.

"They'll lend us some clothes and hats," said Bingo pointing over the road, "just to get as far as Spiff's."

Every London Borrible had heard of the Expedition against the Rumbles but every London Borrible had, long before this time, given the Adventurers up for dead. It took Bingo and the others half an hour to convince this Battersea household that they weren't attempting to perpetrate some Borrible subterfuge for stealing clothes. Once they had been convinced however they lent the clothes eagerly and were delighted to be the first to see the survivors of the Adventure to end all Adventures and proud to hear the first snippets of their stories.

The Adventurers waited until after eight o'clock before going back onto the streets. It was safer that way, for with the pavements crowded they could mingle with the kids on their way to school and remain inconspicuous . The traffic was building up, for many cars use Church Road as a short cut from York Road to Battersea Bridge, crossing the river to get to the centre of London. It was a very busy and dangerous road but to the Borribles it was friendly and welcoming. It was home.

They walked on until they came to the fork of Vicarage Crescent and Battersea High Street itself. They went past Sinjen's School, and they came up to Trott Street and the empty building where Spiff lived and where Knocker had lived as chief Battersea lookout all that time ago. But before they went in, with one accord they walked past the house and on to the market proper.

The stallholders were putting out their merchandise, the shops were open and there was a bustle and a friendliness that made each Adventurer feel glad to be alive. The pie-and-eel shop was preparing for its lunch-time trade and the smell of sauce and liquor was strong. The fish and chip shop was being swabbed out by an Indian who sang as he worked, a strange spicy song, and the surplus store looked reassuringly the same, a cross between a pawnshop and a junk-yard. The Battersea costers whistled and shouted at each other across the street and man-handled their barrows into position or stacked goods on them from the vans parked sideways and awkward across the road. Even when the stallholders shouted at the Borribles and told them to clear off to school, the Borribles only smiled at each other, selfconsciously indulging their nostalgia.

"Knocker loved it down here," said Chalotte, and they came away from the stalls, bringing with them a few things for their breakfast, for they were extraordinarily hungry. They took their provisions and went to report to Spiff.

He was waiting for them. Their arrival had been noted and reported and their story was eagerly awaited. Crowds of Borribles were in the house and more crowded in by the minute. The Adventurers had to push their way in to the basement and fight their way through an excited throng to Spiff's room. He was there, just the same in his orange dressing-gown, with a cup of tea held in front of his sharp face.

He bade the Adventurers sit down and eat the food they had brought from the market. His eyes moved over them and he noted the absences, but his expression gave little away and he said nothing.

Other house-stewards arrived and sat on the floor or stood against the wall round the room. They all waited till Spiff gave the word for the story to be told. They would listen intently and, that very day, would each tell the stories to their households, and the stories would be told again and again from Borrible to Borrible, and so the stories of the Adventurers would become legend, one of the greatest legends ever. And new proverbs and sayings would be added to the Borrible Book and new ambitions would be born in the hearts of Borribles as yet unnamed and some would yearn to have such an Adventure too. But many would find the Adventure unbelievable and say that no Borrible could have done such things and the whole expedition was a fiction and a fabrication, a good story, but not true. "Had anyone ever talked to those who had undertaken the trip?" the sceptics would ask. "Who's ever spoken to Knocker and Napoleon? Has anyone ever seen Orococco and Vulge? Oh, you heard of people who knew somebody who had met someone who had seen Chalotte or Sydney or Torreycanyon, but nobody had really met them."

But in Spiff's room that day were the listeners to and the tellers of a great Adventure, and the tellers still had the marks of their Adventure on them. Their scars were still soft and their muscles still ached and the listeners could see this and they knew the story was true and they would tell it as true and they would be believed. Only in the years to come would the story grow in the telling and lose its firm outline to become a great Borrible Legend.

The Adventurers finished their breakfast, and when Spiff's room was crammed with house-stewards and the doorway was crowded and the landing and all the other rooms too, he gave the sign and Bingo started the story at the beginning, from the moment they had rowed away from Battersea Churchyard. His companions listened, and added to his story if they thought he had forgotten anything, and sometimes they went on with it themselves and the story was thrown backwards and forwards amongst them and it grew and grew. And each one told of his own part in the destruction of the Bunker under Rumbledom, and the tale of the Great Explosion and Adolf's death brought forth deferential whistles from the house-stewards and they looked at the Adventurers with respect and nodded their heads.

Then, sombrely, the Adventurers told of their imprisonment by the Wendles and of the great dilemma of Napoleon Boot and how finally his cleverness had saved them. They told of the loss of the four friends who had stayed behind so that their companions might survive to thwart Flinthead's greed, to escape with the box of Rumble treasure, and how, after all, they had been lucky to escape with their lives alone.

When the great story was ended a heavy silence came over the room and the Adventurers looked at the floor, remembering the five who had not returned. The house-stewards were deeply impressed by the Adventure and indicated to Spiff, by signs and nods of the head, that they thought he ought to mark the occasion with a few well-chosen phrases.

Spiff, who could never resist the temptation of public-speaking, pondered. He took his teapot from the paraffin stove, poured himself a cup, put the sugar in and stirred well, before he deigned to pronounce a word. At last he stood up and cleared his throat.

"A great Adventure!" he began. "The threat of the Rumbles—gone; their power destroyed. Their presumption and pride have taken a very serious knock; it will be many a year, if ever, before they come down here again. A day of great rejoicing it is, and one of sadness, also. Four of you did not return, and one German person, who joined in, only for the glory of the Adventure, has also perished. What can we do except try to remember them always, tell their stories and remember their names—good names; Torreycanyon, Napoleon Boot, Orococco, Adolf Wolfgang Amadeus Winston—and of course, our own chief lookout, Knocker. What second name is there worthy of his Adventure?"

Chalotte looked up and interrupted; there were tears in her eyes. "He went back into the hallway of the Great Door to get that box when he should have been escaping, and though it was blazing with flames and the rafters were falling in huge sparks, he picked up the box and carried it out and it was red-hot and the handle burnt into his hand—down to the bone—and he didn't care. His clothes were alight and I thought he was completely on fire. I think you could call him Knocker Burnthand. It is a good name."

There was a murmur of assent from everybody and many repeated the name to themselves to see how it sounded.

"Burnthand it shall be," said Spiff seriously, "and it shall be written in the book."

He looked at the five survivors in the chairs before him. "Your names, too, are confirmed. You have more than won them. You left here with empty words for your title but you return with names that are full of meaning, and every time they are heard now, great and generous deeds will be thought of. Great names they are, which will make every Borrible think of courage and cunning, loyalty and stealth, individualism and affection, every time they hear them." And Spiff, over-acting a little, recited the names like a litany, "Chalotte, Sydney, Vulge, Stonks and Bingo from Lavender Hill."

Spiff gave a sign and the stewards began to file past the chairs and from the room. They left the house and ran through the busy High Street, back to their own dwellings so they could begin retelling the tale straight away. At their heels followed all the Borribles of Battersea, eager to hear the details of the Great Adventure, and soon Spiff's house was quiet.

He gulped his dark brown tea and looked at the Adventurers, still slumped in their seats.

"You must all be tired," he said. "Why don't you go to the rooms upstairs and rest? I'll see that there's some grub for you when you wake up. It would be a good idea for you to have a good long kip, you know." The five of them got up listlessly and left the room. The elation they had felt at arriving home and telling their story had gone and in its place was a rotten feeling of melancholia mixed with self-pity. They felt too a yearning love for the companions they had left to perish on the River Wandle and the immensity of the loss made an awesome gap in their minds.

They climbed the stairs like old cripples. On the second landing Chalotte, who was leading, turned and stopped the others; her eyes were wet.

"Oh," she said, only just holding back her sobs, "it all seems so useless now. We've won our names but lost our friends. Isn't it all so stupid?"

"Shuddup," said Bingo, "don't make things worse."

They went on upstairs without saying another word.

When he was alone, Spiff topped up his cup of tea and mused over what he had heard and he thought about the loss of Knocker and the others.

"I hate to think of what Flinthead did to 'em when he got his hands on 'em," he said to himself. "What a swine he is." He stirred in the sugar. "Shame about the money. I was never worried about the Rumbles at all, really. Couldn't have given a monkey's. It was the money; I could have done with that. Your average Borrible don't know the value of the stuff, they don't know what it's about. I don't suppose we'll ever see any real money down here. Bloody nuisance! Ah well, there'll be another time, some time."