BRITISH COMICS
THE BOYHOOD of
BERNARD BRIGGS
Episodes 16 – 20
Episode Sixteen of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
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Bernard Briggs looked at the pound notes he was holding and gave a
whistle. “Twenty quid!” he said. “Crikey! I’ve never had so much money in me
hand before!” Bernard was
standing in Alfie’s junkyard. It was Alfie who had given the money to
Bernard. In his long overcoat, with his ancient hat resting on his ears,
Alfie had the solemn look of somebody just returned from a funeral. “Aye,
it’s a good price for that old roller you brought me, Bernard,” said Alfie.
“I can’t see myself making any profit on it at all.” “Come off it, Alfie,”
grinned Bernard. “If you’ve given me twenty pounds, you reckon you can clear
thirty! But that’s O K. We’ve done a deal, and I’m satisfied.” Bernard was
living on his own. He lived in an abandoned barge with his dog, Tiger, and he
made a living by dealing scrap. “What are you going to do now you’re rich,
Bernie?” asked Alfie. “I know a fellow who can let you have a second-hand
Rolls-Royce cheap.” Beneath his solemn expression, Alfie was a bit of a wag.
Bernard grinned again, and swung a leg over the saddle of his bike. “The
Briggs Special will suit me,” he said. The Briggs Special had been built from
bits and pieces by Bernard. An old pram was fastened to the bike, and Bernard
used it for collecting junk. On the side of the pram was painted: “B. Briggs.
Dealer.” At the moment the pram was empty except for Tiger, who sat there
with an ear cocked, enjoying the ride, as Bernard pedalled away. Bernard was
making for the house of Mr Evans, the man who had let him have the roller. Mr
Evans was a local scout commissioner, and he also ran an engineering company.
The horse-drawn roller had come from the company’s sports field. Mr Evans had
wanted to get rid of it, having replaced it with a new powered roller. Mr
Evans looked surprised when he opened the door to Bernard. “Sorry, lad, no
more junk!” he said. “That roller was all I had to dispose of.” |
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Bernard hates school but he’s battling
to stop a fire which might destroy the building. |
“It’s the roller I came to see you
about, mister,” said Bernard. “I reckon you didn’t know what valuable scrap it
was. I got twenty quid for it. I’ll need ten bob a head for the lads who helped
me shift it, and I’ll take fifty bob. That’s fifteen quid for you!”! “Hang on,
young fellow!” protested Mr Evans. “I said you could have the roller if you
could take it away. I wasn’t interested in making a profit.” “I like my profit
to be a fair one, mister,” said Bernard. “Use this for the scouts.” He pushed
the fifteen pounds into Mr Evans’ hand, and hurried away. “I told you that lad
was out of the ordinary!” said Mrs Evans. “You didn’t think he’d get that
roller shifted, but he did.” “He’s pretty remarkable on the football field,
too,” said Mr Evans. “He was in goal for a team that played our scouts. He almost
beat us on his own. I understand he’s been banned from school football for some
reason. I’m going to try to help that lad, Madge!” Meanwhile, Bernard had found
his pals, the lads who had helped him haul the roller from Mr Evans’ field.
They all sat round a table in the local fish-and-chip shop, with heaped plates
in front of them. Bernard shook a helping of tomato sauce over his chips. “Big
eats all round, lads,” he said. “And ten bob each! Thanks for your help.” “Any
time, Bernard,” said Olly Potter. He raised a glass of pop. “Here’s a toast!
Down with Moulty, the teacher who doesn’t know the difference between a
football and a Christmas pudding!” “Moulty must be plain daft, getting you
banned from school football, Bernie,” said another lad. “The Manningham West
District side will never beat Brunton without you in goal.” Mr Moult was their
class teacher, and he did not get on with Bernard. He had been delighted to
cook up an excuse to get Bernard barred from school football. As a result,
Bernard was also out of the West District school side. After that meal, Bernard
was ready for bed. He cycled back to his barge, which was moored on the canal
at a wharf belonging to the Owen Engineering Company. Bernard had permission
from Mr Owen to live there. Bernard flopped into bed in his cabin, with Tiger
curled up on the floor. He fell asleep immediately, but some time later he was
aroused by the barking of his dog. “What’s up, Tiger?” yawned Bernard. He swung
his legs out of bed, and gave a yelp. He was standing in water. Lighting a
lantern, Bernard started to investigate. “Crikey, we’re sinking!” he gasped.
Water was slopping about in the bottom of the boat. Bernard waded out on to
deck and stripped off. “Some of the rotten planks must have given way,” he
muttered. He lowered himself over the side into the water, took a deep breath,
and went under. He groped his way along the underside of the barge, feeling the
timber across. He had to keep surfacing to take a breath, but at last he found
the hole. He stuffed old sacks into the hole, and managed to nail some bits of
scrap timber across. By the time he had finished, his strength was giving out,
and he hauled himself wearily back on deck. “That’s all I can do for now,” he
told Tiger. “I’ll have to fix it properly in daylight. And I’ll need to borrow
a pump from somewhere to get the water out. His bed was almost afloat in the
cabin. Bernard stretched out on the deck and dozed off. The chiming of a church
clock woke him. “
BERNARD BOUNCES BACK
Mr Moult was droning on about the Spanish Armada when Bernard hurried
into the classroom. The teacher stopped, and a triumphant expression crossed
his face. He made a big show of looking at his watch.
“Nice of you to join us at last,
Briggs!” he said, heavily sarcastic. “Sorry I’m late,” said Bernard. “But—”
“Don’t bother inventing any lies!” interrupted Mr Moult. “You’ll stay behind
after school. And I’ll give you work to do to make up for what you’ve missed.”
Bernard said no more, and sat down at his desk. He hadn’t expected Mr Moult to
listen to his explanation. The teacher began talking again. Mr Moult could make
even the most exciting bits of history sound dull. The room was stuffy, and Mr Moult’s
voice bumbled on monotonously. Bernard had missed a lot of sleep. His head
nodded, and his eyes closed. Mr Moult strode forward, grabbed Bernard by the
scruff of the neck, and hauled him from his desk. “Now the idle young ruffian
is asleep!” shouted Mr Moult. “I’ll teach you to pay attention, Briggs!” He
seized his cane. The door opened, and Mr Evans came in. “I’m sorry to
interrupt,” said Mr Evans. “I wanted a word with you about a boy in your class.
Oh, that’s the lad there!” “Another complaint about Briggs?” snapped Mr Moult.
“What’s he done this time?” “Er-no complaint,” said Mr Evans. “I understood he
was banned from school football, and I wondered—” “Quite rightly banned!”
blared Mr Moult. “He’s a disgrace to the school! He let us down on the sports
field, and in class he’s lazy and inattentive. He came in almost an hour late
this morning, and I am to punish him for falling asleep! He’s the worst boy
I’ve ever had to deal with!” “Dear me!” said Mr Evans. “Perhaps I’ve been
mistaken about him. You are the boy’s teacher. You obviously know him better
than I do. I’ve no more to say Mr Moult.” Mr Evans went out, and the teacher
swished the cane. Bernard did not fall asleep again. The tingling in his hands
helped to keep him awake. When the rest of the class was dismissed at the end
of the day, Mr Moult slapped a book down in front of Bernard. “I’m going to the
storeroom to check the sports equipment,” said Mr Moult. “but don’t think you
can sneak off, Briggs! You complete all these exercises before you leave!”
Lighting a cigarette, Mr Moult strolled away to the storeroom and Bernard set
to work. Mr Moult had given him a lot to do, but Bernard was a bright lad, and
he plugged quickly through the exercises. By the time he had finished, Mr Moult
had not come back. “I ain’t hanging about,” thought Bernard. “I’ll go and find
Moulty and show him my work. Bernard headed for the storeroom. The door was
closed, and Mr Moult was not about. In fact, the teacher had retired to the
staff room, and he was having a cup of tea with his feet up. Bernard was
turning away when something caught his eye. Smoke was seeping out under the
door of the storeroom. “Crikey!” said Bernard. He flung the door open and a
blast of heat met him. Smoke and flames surged out. A fire was spreading in the
storeroom. “Fire!” yelled Bernard. He snatched a fire extinguisher from the
wall, banged it down to start it operating, and turned the contents on the
flames. He emptied the extinguisher, but the fire was not quenched. Mr Moult
came hurrying from the staff room. The headmaster followed from his study.
Bernard was running away. “A fire in the storeroom!” shouted Mr Moult. “Look,
Briggs is running away! He must have started it!” “I’ve phoned for the fire
brigade,” said the head. He picked up the extinguisher that Bernard had
dropped. “This one’s empty, get another extinguisher, Moult!” Mr Moult looked
about vaguely. Bernard came running back, carrying a fresh extinguisher. “You
seem to have been mistaken, Moult!” said the head. “Briggs was running to get
another extinguisher!” A siren wailed outside, then the firemen came running
in. They were in time to see the flames dying out as Bernard aimed the second
extinguisher at them. “Well done, lad!” said the fire officer in charge. “Yes,
it was fortunate that you were here, Briggs,” said the head. “What were you
doing in the school at this time, anyway?” “I kept him in, headmaster,” said Mr
Moult. “He came to school very late, then fell asleep in class.” “I was up half
the night trying to stop my barge from sinking, sir,” Bernard told the head.
The fire officer had been rooting about in the blackened storeroom. He came out
and joined them. “Can’t be sure how it started,” he said. “I suppose nobody
would be foolish enough to drop a lighted cigarette in there?” Mr Moult went
pale. Bernard said nothing, but he remembered how Mr Moult had lit a cigarette
on his way to the storeroom. “No, no! That’s impossible!” spluttered Mr Moult.
“Can I go?” asked Bernard. “My barge is waterlogged, and I’ve got to find some
way of pumping it dry.” “You clear off!” snapped Mr Moult. He suddenly seemed
eager to get rid of Bernard. “And thanks, Briggs!” said the head. “You kept
your nerve! A credit to the school!” Bernard hurried out followed by the fire
officer. “Hang on, lad,” said the fireman. “I heard what you said about your
barge. You did us a good turn, tackling that fire. Now we’ll do you one! Hop
aboard!” Bernard travelled back to his barge in style, aboard the fire engine.
On the wharf, the firemen rigged their pumps and ran hoses into the barge. The
pump started, and water spurted out of the barge into the canal. “Great!”
beamed Bernard. “Thanks, mister!” The barge was soon clear of water, and riding
high again. The firemen were just putting their gear away when a bunch of
Bernard’s pals arrived. They carried tools and lengths of timber. “We’ll
forgive you for not letting the school burn down, Bernard!” said Olly Potter.
“We’ve come to help you with the repairs. And you can do something for us in
return.” “I’ll bet there’s a catch in it!” said Bernard, “but I’ll be glad of a
hand, mates.” “We’ve got up a team to play
NEXT WEEK—Bernard
must keep his
nerve or his team
will lose a cup-tie.
Episode Seventeen of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
|
A loud crash on the towpath outside woke Bernard Briggs. He swung out
of bed in the cabin of the barge where he lived. His dog, Tiger, was sitting
up and looking at him enquiringly. “There goes our
alarm clock, Tiger!” said Bernard. He crossed to a window and looked out. The
crash had sounded like several pots and pans falling on to a sheet of
corrugated iron, and that was exactly what it was. The night before, Bernard
had balanced the pans on top of an old stool which stood on the sheet of
iron. A string ran from a leg of the stool and over the wall of the Owen
Engineering Company, which bordered the towpath. Now the stool was on its
side, the pots and pans scattered over the corrugated iron. Looking over the
wall was the night-watchman of the Owen Engineering Company. “ |
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No one wants to take the vital penalty
kick and Bernard Briggs volunteers to win or lose the match for his team. |
He had a quick wash. For breakfast,
it was bread and margarine for Bernard and a bone for Tiger. Bernard set off on
his bike, with Tiger perched on the junk in the pram. He was heading for
Alfie’s junkyard. The big wooden doors at Alfie’s were closed, but as Bernard
rode up, a small wicket gate in one of the doors opened. Alfie, who lived in a
hut in the yard, reached out for a bottle of milk that stood by the gate. Alfie
needed a shave, but that was his usual condition. He was wearing a long
nightshirt, with his usual ankle-length overcoat on top. His old hat was down
over his ears. Alfie stopped in the middle of a yawn, and stared at Bernard.
“Eh?” he mumbled. “Oh, it’s you, Bernard! What time do you call this? I don’t
do business in the middle of the night!” “I’ve got to get away early,”
explained Bernard. “I’m playing football at Brunton, but I need a bit of cash
in case I have to pay a fare or anything.” Alfie did a bit of muttering, but he
opened the doors and let Bernard in. Bernard unloaded the junk from his pram.
“I don’t know how you expect me to get rid of that stuff,” said Alfie. “I only
take your junk out of the goodness of my heart, Bernard.” Bernard was used to
Alfie’s little ways, and he only grinned. “You’ve caught me before I’m properly
awake,” said Alfie. “All right two bob it is, but I’ll kick myself later.” With
the two shillings in his pocket, and with Tiger enjoying the ride in the empty
pram, Bernard pedalled away. In the town square a coach was waiting, with the
rest of the West District side already aboard. Mr Cresswell, the team selector,
was standing by the coach. “Come along, lad, we’re ready to leave,” called Mr
Cresswell. “Shan’t be a minute, Mr Cresswell,” said Bernard, steering his bike
towards the car park in the centre of the square. “I’ve just got to park my
bike.” “The charge is two bob for parking all day,” the attendant told Bernard.
“There goes all my cash!” muttered Bernard. “Easy come, easy go!” He ran to the
coach, with Tiger bounding at his heels, and his old boots in his hand. “Can I
bring my dog?” he asked. “There’s no time to make any other arrangements now,”
said Mr Cresswell, “but keep him under control. Get aboard!” Bernard scrambled to
a seat, and Tiger flopped down on the floor near him. Mr Cresswell climbed in
and the bus started. “Er – I’ve got no money, mister,” said Bernard, “if
there’s a fare to pay – ” “there’s nothing to pay, lad,” said Mr Cresswell.
“All expenses are taken care of.”
THE TWELVE-MAN
TEAM
Bernard spent the journey getting to know his team mates. He had played
against some of them before, but there was nobody from his own school. Mr
Moult, Bernard’s teacher, was in charge of football at Wesley Street School,
and his idea of picking a team was to push forward his own favourites and try
to keep out Bernard, whom he disliked.
The result was that
NEXT WEEK—Mr
Moult
hatches a plot to
remove
Bernard from his
barge.
Episode Eighteen of: The
Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken from The Wizard
|
Bernard Briggs whistled cheerfully as he pedalled along the drive
leading to the Manningham Education Department’s playing fields. Tiger,
Bernard’s dog, cocked up an ear and joined in with a couple of barks. Tiger was riding
in the old pram that Bernard had fixed to his bike as a sidecar. “It should
be a good game today, Tiger,” said Bernard. “Providing we get a referee with
a bit more sense this time, that is.” Bernard was on his way to keep goal for
Manningham West District Schools team against Brunton South in one of the
opening rounds of the Midlands Junior School Shield. It was a replay of the
game that Manningham had drawn at Brunton which Bernard considered that bad
refereeing had prevented his team from winning. The impatient toot of a horn
made Bernard look round. A car was slowing down behind. There were fences at
each side of the drive, and there was no room to pass. The driver, a youngish
man but nearly bald, leaned out of the window and jabbed his hand on the horn
again. “Cool down, mister!” called Bernard. “This contraption of mine ain’t
got wings!” “Shift over!” the man shouted. “This isn’t the way to the council
refuse tip!” Bernard and his bike certainly wouldn’t have won any prizes for
elegance. Bernard’s sweater was threadbare, his trousers patched. His hair
stood in spikes. On the side of the battered pram were painted the words: “B.
Briggs. Dealer.” Bernard was on his own. He lived on an old canal barge, and
he kept Tiger and himself by dealing in scrap. It was a hard start in life
for the lad who was later to become Britain’s most famous goalkeeper, but he
didn’t let it get him down, and he just grinned at the man’s remark. The
driver edged his car forward and the bumper nudged against the back of
Bernard’s bike. Bernard was jolted in the saddle. Tiger, who had been
standing with his front paws on the edge of the pram, gave a surprised yelp
and fell into the bottom of the pram. |
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That’s Bernard standing there all poshed
up, ready for the welfare johnnies who’ve come to inspect his barge-home. |
Bernard put out his arm and waved it up
and down in a slowing-down signal. He knew the Highway Code as well as he knew
the rules of football. He put on the brakes and stopped. The car was forced to
halt behind him. Bernard swung from the saddle. He made sure that Tiger was not
hurt, then walked round to inspect the back of his bike. He ignored another
angry blast from the car horn. “No damage done!” said Bernard. He walked to the
car, and the driver glared out at him. “Where are your ‘L’ plates, mister?” he
asked. “You impudent little urchin!” the man spluttered. “Use your loaf,” said
Bernard. “There ain’t room for me to get out of the way, so you’ll have to stay
behind me. And keep your distance!” Bernard pedalled on and the car crawled
after him. The driver was fuming, but he did not try to bump Bernard again.
When the drive opened out at the playing fields, the car roared past. Bernard
had to put on his brakes as the driver cut in front of him. Halting outside the
pavilion, the man got out carrying a bag. He gave a curt nod to Mr Cresswell,
the Manningham selector, who was standing outside, and hurried into the
pavilion. “Who’s that fellow?” Bernard asked Mr Cresswell. “That’s Mr Purser,
the Chief Welfare Officer for Manningham.” Answered Mr Cresswell. “He’s our
referee today, Bernard.” “Oh, no! I’ve heard better news!”
GIFT GOAL
Mr Purser frowned when he saw
Bernard trotting out with the Manningham team. Raising a hand, the referee
beckoned in a lordly manner for Bernard to go to him. “Just a word of warning,”
said Mr Purser. “I don’t stand for any roughneck tactics in a game I’m
controlling. Just remember that, boy. I’ll be watching you.”
“You
ain’t even seen me touch the ball yet,” said Bernard. “Do you call that fair,
just because you and me had a dust-up before the game?” He ran to his goal,
leaving Mr Purser red-faced. Standing on the touchline, Mr Cresswell sighed.
“Bernard attracts more trouble than the rest of the team put together!” he muttered. Brunton started off with a rush.
Swinging the ball across the field, they thrust into the Manningham half. Their
winger lifted the ball into the middle and Bernard came bounding out. He
jumped, and pulled the ball down before the Brunton centre-forward could get
his head to it. Bernard swerved away. His arm came over to throw the ball.
“Move it, Manningham!” he bellowed. “Let’s have an early goal!” The referee
whistled and Bernard halted. “What was that for, ref?” he demanded. “You took
five steps without bouncing the ball, Briggs,” answered Mr Purser. “It’s a free
kick.” “Somebody can’t count!” muttered Bernard, but he kept his remark to
himself. The Brunton centre-forward dabbed the ball down of the spot. He took
the kick quickly. Bernard did not move as the ball sailed past him into the
net. Mr Purser whistled and pointed to the centre spot. “Hey, you can’t award a
goal!” protested Bernard. “That was an indirect free kick. You can’t score
direct from that.” “Any more chat from you and you’ll go off, Briggs!” blared
Mr Purser. “I say it’s a goal!” With a gift goal under their belts, Brunton
piled on the pressure. Their centre-forward came bursting through into the open
space in front of Bernard. From behind him, the ball came soaring up. “He’s a
mile offside!” muttered Bernard. But there was no peep from the referee’s
whistle. Bernard did not waste time protesting. The centre-forward shot, and
Bernard took off. At full stretch he tipped the ball over the bar for a corner.
Brunton players crowded round for the corner. The ball came over, and Bernard
plunged to take it. A Brunton player charged into him. Bernard stood firm, and
the player bounced off. Bernard scooped the ball to him. “The ref let that go
too!” thought Bernard. “He’s worse than the geezer we had last week!” Bernard
cleared his lines, but Brunton came back. As Bernard cut out a cross, two
Brunton players rushed at him. “These two are going to try to sandwich me!”
muttered Bernard. He strode to meet them. The two players staggered as Bernard
ploughed between them. “Not this time, mates!” grinned Bernard. The whistle
shrilled and Mr Purser came running up. “I’m giving a penalty against you for
violent and dangerous charging inside the area, Briggs!” he snapped. Bernard
said nothing, but he thought a lot. He took up his position on the goal line.
The Brunton centre-forward hammered the ball at him from the penalty spot.
Bernard hurtled across his goal and clawed the ball down. “Lovely save,
Bernard!” called Mr Cresswell. “A fluke!” sniffed a man who had just arrived.
It was Mr Moult, Bernard’s teacher. Bernard was a long way from being the
teacher’s pet. In fact, he was Mr Moult’s pet hate. Bernard took a quick glance
at the field. The Brunton players had all moved up for the penalty. The
Manningham centre-forward was standing alone, just inside his own half. Bernard
hurled the ball in a mighty throw that dropped it at the centre-forward’s feet.
“It’s all yours, Charlie!” he yelled. With only the goalkeeper to beat, the
centre-forward raced away. The goalkeeper came rushing out in a panic. The
Manningham centre-forward slammed the ball past him and into the net. “Goal!”
yelled Bernard. “You can’t be offside in your own half!” grinned Bernard. “Even
our ref seems to know that!” It became hectic in the second half, when Brunton
swarmed to the attack, trying to snatch back the lead they had lost. They got
as far as Bernard’s goal area, but no further. Bernard stopped everything they
slammed at him. He pulled shots out of the air. He dived at forwards’ feet to
take the ball off them. He moved fast, and thought faster. He was always in
place to intercept the Brunton attacks. With time running out, Brunton were
awarded a throw-in near the Manningham goal. Their left-half tried a long one
into the box. Bernard raced out and snatched the ball down. He hurled the ball
far down the field to his left winger. “Move it, Bert!” he bellowed. “Arthur’s
backing you!” The Manningham winger raced the ball down the line and pulled it
back. His inside man ran to it and hit it. The ball hurtled clear of the diving
keeper and into the net. Sitting near Bernard’s goal. Tiger gave an excited
bark. “You’re right, chum!” grinned Bernard. “That’s the winner!” Mr Purser
blew for full-time a minute later. With a score of 2-1, Manningham were through
to the next round. Mr Purser came off, and Mr Moult joined him. “Well, Peter, I
warned you about Briggs,” said Mr Moult. “He’s impertinent and a know-all!” “I
agree, John,” answered Mr Purser. “He continually criticized my decisions. But
he’d better make the most of his brief triumph. He’ll soon be put in his
place!”
BRIGHTENING UP BERNARD
Three days later the postman arrived
at the wharf belonging to the Owen Engineering Company, where Bernard’s barge
was moored. “Letters for me?” exclaimed Bernard. The first letter was from the
District Football Association, inviting Bernard to play for the District team
against Sheffley Central in the next round of the shield competition.
Bernard’s
grin faded when he opened the second letter. “Bad news, Bernard?” asked the
postman. “It’s from the Chief Welfare Officer,” said Bernard. “He says he’s
bringing members of his committee to inspect my barge!” “You’d better get
tidied up, lad,” said the postman. “That lot could have you sent to a home!” At
school Bernard faced another dreary day with Mr Moult, but the teacher seemed
to be in a good humour. “Scruffy as ever, eh, Briggs?” he said, sounding almost
genial. “But the classroom will look a bit tidier when the welfare authorities
have taken you in hand!” Bernard had learned to keep quiet under Mr Moult’s
jibes, but that remark made him think. “How does Moulty know the welfare people
are interested in me?” Bernard wondered. Sitting at his desk, Bernard had
plenty to think about. Mr Moult began droning on, and Bernard let his thoughts
wander. He was working out how to make his barge look as homely as possible. “I
can scrub it out nice and clean, but it still won’t look up to much,” he
pondered. “That Mr Purser is going to sink me if he can.” Mr Moult stopped
talking. Bernard was sitting with his elbows on the desk, gazing into space. Mr
Moult snatched a ruler and cracked it down on Bernard’s skull. “Ouch!” said
Bernard. “Nice of you to join us, Briggs!” said Mr Moult, heavily sarcastic.
“If you can’t work in class, you can stay after school and catch up.” Bernard
groaned. This was one evening when it was important to get away early. “On second
thoughts, keeping you in is probably a waste of time,” said Mr Moult, reaching
for his cane. “Come out here!” Bernard got three stinging cuts from the cane on
each hand, but he preferred that to being kept in. “I wonder why Moulty changed
his mind?” Bernard asked himself. “I reckon he knows there’s trouble waiting
for me tonight, and he wants to make sure I’m there to get it!” As soon as
school was over, Bernard hurried out and scrambled on to his bike. Some of his
pals followed him. “Got time for a game of football, Bernard?” asked Olly
Potter. “Sorry, mates,” said Bernard. “If I don’t tidy up my barge, I’m likely
to end up in a home.” He pedalled away to the wharf, and set to work scrubbing
out the cabin of the barge. A shout from the towpath brought him out on deck.
His school pals were climbing aboard. Olly Potter and another lad carried a
television set. Two other boys had a roll of carpet. Another lad carried a
standard lamp. “My dad said you could have this old television set, Bernard,”
grinned Olly. “We’ve had a whip-round for the rest of the furniture. Some of it
you can keep, the rest has to go back tonight. But it’ll fix your barge up
nicely for the inspection!” “Well, thanks, mates!” said Bernard. “But I’ve got
no electricity to work the television and standard lamps.” “My dad’s a foreman
at the Owen Engineering Company,” said Jackie Carter. “Mr Owen’s always ready
to give a hand, Bernard, and we’ve got permission to run a cable from the
factory.” The boys carried the furniture down below. Olly handed Bernard a
parcel wrapped in brown paper. “Put this gear on, Bernard,” he said. “It’s my
best school uniform, but don’t fall in the canal wearing it. My Mum doesn’t
know I’ve brought it!” About an hour later, Mr Purser bustled importantly on to
the wharf. With him were Mr Hadley and Miss Trimmer, members of the welfare
committee. “This is where the boy lives,” said Mr Purser. “Most unsuitable,
you’ll agree.” “I’ve seen better residential districts,” said Mr Hadley, a
blunt, red-faced man. “The boy matches his surroundings,” said Mr Purser. “He –
oh!” Bernard was standing by the barge. He wore a neat school blazer, carefully
pressed grey flannel bags, clean shirt, and school tie. He politely raised his
new school cap. “Well where is this Bernard Briggs?” demanded Mr Hadley.
“That’s me, sir,” said Bernard. “Would you care to come aboard?” He led the way
down into the cabin. A carpet covered the floor. The television set stood in
the corner, with an armchair in front of it, a standard lamp beside it an electric
fire glowed. There were pictures on the wall, a vase of flowers on a gleaming
table. “How cosy!” said Miss Trimmer. “Quite delightful! It does you credit, my
boy!” “I don’t understand it!” spluttered Mr Purser. “My brother-in-law told me
the place was a slum!” “You and Moult have been wasting our time, Purser!”
grunted Mr Hadley. “Come on! We’ve no fault to find here, young Briggs!” Mr
Hadley and Miss Trimmer marched away, with Mr Purser trailing behind. As soon
as they had disappeared, Bernard’s pals bobbed into sight. “How did it go,
Bernard?” asked Olly Potter. Bernard grinned, and gave the thumbs-up sign.
“Couldn’t be better, mates,” he grinned. “We’re still in business.”
NEXT WEEK—Big
trouble for
Bernard when the
canal is
filled in.
Episode Nineteen of: The
Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken from The Wizard
|
Bernard Briggs came leaping out of his goal. Soaring into the air
above a ruck of players, arms at full stretch, he clawed the ball down. A player thumped
into him, with the referee unsighted. Caught off-balance, Bernard went down,
but he still had the ball hugged to his chest. He rolled over, bounced to his
feet, and dodged away. A long throw sent the ball out to his left-winger.
“Shift it, Ernie!” bellowed Bernard. Bernard was enjoying himself. A hard
game of football was his idea of a good time. He was keeping goal for the
Manningham West District team against Sheffley Central in the quarter-finals
of the competition for the Midland Junior Schools Shield. Bernard was already
showing the skill and courage that were to make him |
|
|
Bernard’s home disappears under a
mountain of earth as the bulldozer begins to fill in the canal. |
That unexpected goal put new life into Sheffley.
They attacked again. Their winger tried to run the ball through along the line.
The Manningham left back lunged in and booted the ball into touch. Sheffley
took a quick throw-in. Their half-back slung the ball to his centre-forward,
who was in space with only Bernard to beat. Instead of going after him, the
Manningham centre-half stood and yelled at the referee. “Offside—ref!”
“Crackpot!” shouted Bernard, seeing the referee wave play on. “You can’t be
offside from a throw-in!” He raced out of his goal, plunging at the
centre-forward and narrowing the angle. The Sheffley player took a quick dab at
the ball as Bernard pounced and the shot went curving well outside the post.
“Well done, Bernard!” called Mr Owen, who was standing on the touchline with Mr
Cresswell, the Manningham selector. Mr Owen ran the Owen Engineering Company,
and it was he who had given Bernard permission to use the barge moored near his
factory. “Yes, Bernard Briggs is the real star of the team,” agreed Mr
Cresswell. “He flustered that centre-forward into shooting wide, but you can’t
fluster Bernard!” Bernard put the ball down for a goal kick, and took a quick
look at the field. One of the Manningham forwards was unmarked near the
Sheffley goal, bending to tie his bootlaces. “Arthur is in a great position,”
thought Bernard. “He’s finished tying his lace. It’s worth a try.” Bernard
backed off, took a quick run, and booted the ball so that it went soaring away
down the field. “Look at that!” exclaimed Mr Owen. “For a young lad, Bernard’s
a terrific kicker of a dead ball.” “And see where he’s placing it!” said Mr
Cresswell. “Bernard uses his brains.” The ball bounced near the unmarked
Manningham forward who pounced on it and swerved round, with only the goalkeeper
to beat. It was the turn of the Sheffley players to shout. “Offside!” “Play
on!” called the referee. The goalkeeper hesitated. When he started to move it
was too late and Arthur slammed the ball wide of him into the net. “Goal!”
roared Bernard. “We’ve got a good ref here! He knows you can’t be offside from
a goal kick neither!” Sheffley tried to get back their lost lead, but Bernard
wasn’t letting another one past him. He dived to hold a shot near the post. He
jumped to pull one down from under the bar. He went full length at a forward’s
feet to smother a shot. He bounced out to cut off a cross, and took the ball
off the head of the Sheffley centre-forward. Sheffley began to get the feeling
that the Manningham goal had been boarded up. The pressure began to slacken.
They were running out of steam. “This is it!” muttered Bernard. He collected a
shot, ran out, and bounced the ball round a Sheffley man who had tried to
tackle him. “Run, Charlie!” he bawled. The Manningham inside-right swerved out
to the wing. Bernard got his toe under the ball and lofted it away. The ball
bounced in front of Charlie, whose winger had cut inside. Charlie swung the
ball across. The winger went up to it, and it was there. “Goal!” bellowed
Bernard. “That’ll see us through, lads!” Bernard was right. The referee blew
for full-time, and Manningham were into the semi-final with a 2-1 win. “Thanks,
ref!” said Bernard. “You know your stuff!” “You’re not so bad yourself, lad,”
smiled the referee. Coming off, the referee spoke to Mr Cresswell and Mr Owen.
“That goalkeeper of yours is worth keeping an eye on,” he said. “A great little
player!” “You don’t know the half of it!” said Mr Owen. “He’s something special
off the field as well.” Going to his car, Mr Owen met Bernard, who had Tiger
frisking behind. “Congratulations, Bernard,” he said. “By the way. I’m off
abroad on business for a time, but I’ve left instructions about you. There’ll
be no problems about you continuing to use the barge.”
SCUTTLED!
The trouble started for Bernard a
few days later. He was returning home after an evening’s work looking for
scarp. He had a pram fixed to his bike, and on the pram was painted: “B.
Briggs. Dealer.” Tiger sat in the pram, sharing it with an old kettle and a bag
of nuts and bolts.
“We ain’t had much luck on the
rounds today, Tiger,” said Bernard. “I reckon I’ve cleaned out the district
round about. We’ll have to go farther afield. But it’s difficult finding the
time, what with going to school and everything.” He followed the wall round the
Owen factory yard, and pedalled on to the wharf where his barge was moored.
Tiger gave an angry bark, and Bernard stopped dead. “Cor!” he said. A bulldozer
was at work on the wharf. Bernard saw the blade of the machine push a mound of
earth into the canal near his barge. Leaping off his bike, Bernard ran to the
bulldozer. “Hey, what are you up to, mister?” he yelled. “That’s my barge!”
“They told me it was derelict,” said the driver. “Anyway, I’ve got my orders,
son. This stretch of the canal has to be filled in. A danger to kids, they
say.” Bernard whirled round and ran off the wharf, with Tiger at his heels. The
Owen factory was still open, with a late shift at work, and Bernard raced into
the reception office. “I want to see the manager!” he told the dapper office
youth who came to the counter. “You’ve got a hope!” said the youth. “He doesn’t
see scruffs like you!” Bernard vaulted the counter and the youth gave a yell. A
big man in a dark suit came out of an inner office. “What’s going on?” he
demanded. “This young hooligan tried to break in, Mr Duffy!” the youth bleated.
“Mr Duffy?” said Bernard. “You’re the manager, ain’t you? Well, can you do
something about my barge? Mr Owen said it would be all right, but some geezer’s
trying to scuttle it!” “Yes, Mr Owen told me about you,” said the manager, “but
I’m afraid this is nothing to do with us, lad. The town council have ordered
the canal to be filled in. I understand a Mr Moult got up a petition
complaining it was dangerous.” “Mr Moult?” gasped Bernard. “Crikey, I might
have known!” Mr Moult was Bernard’s teacher. He disliked Bernard, and was
always trying to make trouble for him. Bernard had always managed to come out
on top before, but it looked as if Mr Moult had scored at last. Returning to
the wharf, Bernard was in time to see his barge disappearing under a load of
earth. His few possessions had been dumped on the wharf. “What’s the use of a
bed with nowhere to put it!” muttered Bernard. “We’re homeless again, Tiger!
Well, come on, mate!” He pedalled off, with Tiger looking downcast in the pram.
It was getting dark, and he turned on to a rough patch of ground where
buildings were being demolished to make way for new houses. “This’ll have to
do, Tiger,” he said. He had brought his blankets with him from the barge, and
he curled up in the pram with Tiger, pulling the blankets over them both.
Bernard was no giant, but he was too big to sleep in the pram, and he had to
curl up awkwardly to fit in. “I’ll be tied up in knots by the morning!” he
grunted. He had just managed to doze off when something wet splashing on his
face woke him up. Rain was starting to come down heavily. Bernard groped about
the site and found a length of corrugated iron. With that over the pram, he and
Tiger settled down underneath. The blankets were damp, and the pattering of the
rain on the corrugated iron kept disturbing him. Bernard was glad when daylight
came. He had a few coppers left over from his scrap deals, and he got a snack
for himself and Tiger at a transport café, where the owner let him have a wash.
It was pretty obvious that he had slept in his clothes when he arrived at
school. Mr Moult was waiting for him. The teacher looked Bernard up and down
with a sarcastic smirk on his face. “I’m not having you in my class looking
like that, Briggs!” said Mr Moult. “This is a respectable school, not a
pigsty!” “Well, whose fault is it that I ain’t able to tidy myself up proper?”
said Bernard. He got a crack on the knuckles from Mr Moult’s ruler for that. Mr
Moult pushed him to the door. “Any more impudence and I take you to the
headmaster, Briggs!” blared Mr Moult. “Go and wash!” Bernard hurried out,
keeping his mouth shut. He knew that Mr Moult had him at his mercy. While he
was having a wash, Mr Robinson, the school janitor, came in. He was a friend of
Bernard’s, and he had encouraged Bernard’s football ambitions. He brought a
message from Mr Cresswell, the Manningham West District selector. “You’re
picked for the semi-final against Liverport A, Bernard,” said Mr Robinson.
“It’s to be held at Brunton. “Great!” said Bernard. “But I ain’t pleased about
Brunton. I’ve played there before. Proper toffee-nosed place it is. For the
rest of the week, Bernard had a hard time. He had to put up with Mr Moult
during the day, and at night sleep rough. During one night he made himself snug
in a henhouse, but the owner found him early in the morning, and chased him
out. In addition to that, scrap was hard to find, and Bernard had to live on
bread and marge. A friendly butcher gave him some bones in return for a hand in
scrubbing out his shop, so Bernard made sure that Tiger did not suffer. The
night before the Liverport game, Bernard slept in his pram, as usual. Cycling
to Brunton the next day, he found it hard to stop yawning. “I ain’t had a good
night’s sleep all this week!” he mumbled. “And I feel as stiff as an old
plank!” The pitch at
NEXT WEEK—Bernard
returns
to the Children’s
Home and
an old enemy—Mrs
Sprott
Episode Twenty of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
|
Bernard Briggs was pedalling towards Alfie’s junkyard when his bike
gave a lurch. The pram attached to his bike as a sidecar sagged to one side. “Crikey, more
trouble!” muttered Bernard. He got off and walked round to look at the pram.
The spokes of the wheel had given away, causing it to collapse. Bernard got
hold of his bike and started to push. There were only a few oddments of scrap
in the pram, but it wasn’t easy to move bike and pram with the buckled wheel
dragging. Bernard was puffing when he reached Alfie’s yard. Alfie came out,
wearing his usual ankle-length overcoat and battered bowler. “You’re right
out of luck, son,” said Alfie, looking at the pram. “I ain’t half!” said
Bernard. “Everything’s going wrong, Alfie.” Bernard was on his own. He had
been living in an old barge with his dog, Tiger, and making a living by
dealing in junk. But troubles were piling up for him, largely due to Mr
Moult, Bernard’s teacher, who disliked the lad. Mr Moult had organised a
petition to have the canal filled in, claiming that it was dangerous to
children. Bernard’s barge had disappeared under the earth tipped into the
canal. Then Bernard’s dog had been taken and put into kennels, on the pretext
that Tiger was vicious. Even Bernard, who was full of fight, was losing some
of his bounce under these blows. It was not a promising start to life for the
boy who was later to become |
|
|
Bernard depends on his bike for a living
and now a collapsed front fork brings it all to an end. |
Bernard decided that it would have to do, and he
set to work to fit the wheel in place. It was still early in the morning. After
sleeping in the pram on a patch of waste ground, Bernard had been up since
dawn, looking for business. “What’s the time, Alfie?” he asked. From somewhere
inside his coat, Alfie hauled out a chain that looked as if it had once held
the anchor of the luxury liner, the Queen Elizabeth. There was a battered
silver watch on the end of the chain. Alfie held the watch to his ear, shook
it, and studied the dial. “My watch says
THE MARLING CUP
Mr Moult welcomed Bernard into the
classroom with a triumphant smirk.
“I didn’t recognise you at first,
Briggs,” he said. “They must have cleaned you up at the Home. By the way, I
have a message from Mr Cresswell, the Manningham West District selector. You
are in the team for the final of the shield competition against Bradburn at
Sheffley on Saturday. But you won’t be able to play of course, now you are in
care.” “Who says not?” thought Bernard. “I ain’t letting the team down. I’ll be
there!” But on Saturday, Bernard was still at the Home, locked in his room.
There was no sign of him when Manningham West team met Mr Cresswell to catch
their coach to Sheffley. Mr Moult strolled up to join them. “We’ll have to go
without young Briggs,” frowned Mr Cresswell. At that moment, Bernard was
listening at the door of his room. Everything had gone quiet, and he decided
that Mrs Sprott was safely out of the way. Bernard took the blanket from his
bed, knotted an end round one of the bars at the window, and pushed it out. He
squeezed through, slithered down, and dropped the rest of the way to the
ground. Then he ran. He reached the town square in time to see the team bus
pulling away. “Missed it!” he gasped, “well, I’ll have to use my thumb!” In the
dressing-room at Sheffley, Mr Cresswell was just going to tell the reserve
keeper to get changed when Bernard burst in. “Sorry, mister, I got held up!”
panted Bernard. “I finally got a lift in a lorry carrying pigs swill!” “It
smells like it!” said Mr Cresswell. “Well, hurry and change, lad. We’ve brought
your strip.” Bernard p0ulled off his clothes and plunged under the shower. Mr
Moult hurried into the dressing-room. “Did I see Briggs?” he demanded. “That
boy’s broken out of the Home! He must be sent back at once!” “Bernard’s in our
team, and he’s playing!” said Mr Cresswell. “That’s all that concerns me! Now
get out of the dressing-room, Moult! You’ve no authority here!” Bernard took
his place in goal, and watched the teams lining up for the kick-off. The game
started with an attack by Bradburn. They worked the ball along the line, and it
came soaring into the goal area. Bernard ran out, jumped and collected the
cross confidently. With an overarm throw he sent the ball away to his
left-half. The Manningham attack was blocked, and Bradburn came back. The
centre-forward thrust his way through and fired off a block-buster. “Laugh that
off!” he yelled. Bernard took off across his goal like a rocket. He seemed to
grow in flight. With one arm at full stretch, he clawed the ball down from the
top corner of the goal. “Good save, Bernard!” called a voice. Bernard got the
ball away, and looked in the direction of the voice. Grinning, he gave a
thumbs-up sign. Mr Owen was among the spectators. Mr Owen was a factory owner
with an interest in junior football, and it was he who had originally given
Bernard permission to use the old barge. He had been abroad on business, and
there had been nobody to speak up for Bernard when the barge was destroyed.
Bradburn piled on the pressure. Bernard dived to block another shot. He leapt
out to cut off a cross. He went down on one knee to collect another attempt.
Nothing that Bradburn tried could get past him, and their play began to get a
bit rough. A player charged at Bernard as he took the ball. The referee raised
his whistle, then let play go on. It was the Bradburn player who had come off
worst. Bernard stood his ground, and the player bounced off him. Bradburn
attacked down the wing again. The ball came over; Bernard went up, two Bradburn
forwards with him. Bernard swung a fist, and hit one of the Bradburn lads on
the nose. The whistle shrilled. “Look at that!” said Moult. “A deliberate punch
from Briggs! The hooligan can’t restrain his natural impulses!” But the referee
was speaking to the Bradburn player, who was rubbing his nose. “Cut that out!”
said the referee. “I saw you shove your elbow into the goalkeeper’s ribs!”
“That’s right,” grinned Bernard, “but he made trouble for himself. He put me
off my aim as I was going for the ball, and I hit him instead!” Bernard dabbed
the ball down to take the free kick and his forwards moved up. Bradburn players
ran quickly to mark them. Bernard tapped the ball to his left-back, and raced
on. “Back to me, mate!” he yelled. The back lifted the ball ahead of Bernard.
The Bradburn players hesitated as they saw the opposition goalkeeper pounce on
the ball and run it towards them. Bernard crossed the halfway line, and kept
going. The Bradburn centre-half came lunging at him. Bernard slowed, picked up
speed again, and went past, the ball at his feet. His centre-forward was
running across the goalmouth, unmarked. The goalkeeper pointed at him and
yelled. “Offside!” The referee waved play on, pointing to a defender who was
pounding after the centre-forward. Bernard hit the ball, the goalkeeper dived.
“Goal!” chortled Bernard. “You want to play to the whistle, chum!” Time was
running out. Dominating his goal area, Bernard let nothing past him. A long
blast from the whistle announced the end of the game. Bernard did a cartwheel
to celebrate winning the shield. His team mates grabbed him and pushed him
forward to accept the award. “Lady Marlin will present the shield,” announced
an official. The elderly woman waiting with the shield was the woman whose junk
Bernard had removed. “You seem to have many talents, young man!” she said. “It
gives me great pleasure to present this shield. I’m only sorry it couldn’t be
the Marling Cup, donated by my late husband, but that disappeared years ago.”
“The Marling Cup?” said Bernard. “I think I might know where that is, lady!”
Bernard travelled back to Manningham by car, in company with Lady Marling and
Mr Owen. Jumping out of the car at Alfie’s yard, Bernard was greeted by excited
barking. A delighted mongrel rushed out at him, followed by Alfie. “Tiger!”
gasped Bernard. “And you’re back too, Alfie!” “Got back yesterday,” said Alfie.
“The doctors thought it was appendicitis, but I told ‘em it was only
indigestion. I found Tiger here. He must have broken out of the kennels and
come looking for you.” Bernard took the polished wooden box from among the
junk, and opened it. There was a silver cup inside. “I found this among the
junk and put it on one side,” he told Lady Marling. “I thought it might be
important, but I ain’t had a chance to come back for it until now.” “Yes,
that’s the Marlin Cup!” exclaimed Lady Marlin. “Well done, boy! There’s a
reward offered for its return, and you’ve earned it!” Another car drew up. Mr
Moult got out. With him were Mr Purser, the Welfare Officer, and Mrs Sprott. Mr
Purser and the matron rushed at Bernard and grabbed him. “Come on, Briggs!”
snapped Mr Moult. “Back to the Home where you belong, you young lout!” He
backed away as Tiger snarled. He looked even more nervous as Lady Marling
advanced on him. “Just a minute, my man!” she said. “What right have people got
to come here bullying this boy? I want to hear more about this!” Mr Moult and
his cronies tried to splutter explanations, and were cut down to size by Lady
Marling and Mr Owen. Routed, the three of them crept back to their car. “I
shall be seeing the authorities about your high-handed behaviour,” said lady
Marling. “I can testify that the boy is quite capable of looking after himself.
He’s not a criminal to be locked up. I’m sure Mr Owen will join me in accepting
responsibility for him.” “Certainly,” said Mr Owen, “and I’ll help Bernard to
get his business started again, Lady Marling.” A week later, the business of B.
Briggs, Dealer, was flourishing. Bernard had a new home and store under a
railway arch, and he had a horse and cart, bought out of the reward money. Mr
Owen watched Bernard bringing in his first load of junk, with Tiger sitting on
top of the load. “Everything’s sorted out, Bernard,” said Mr Owen. “The full
story of how Mrs Sprott was running the home has come out into the open. She
has been dismissed from the Welfare Service, and her illegal treatment of you
and the other children will be investigated by the police. What do you aim to
be – a millionaire junk dealer, or a star footballer?” “I ain’t never going to
be a millionaire,” grinned Bernard. “But I reckon I can be a dealer and a
footballer. The junk business is a living, but football’s fun!”
THE END
The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs 20 episodes appeared in The Wizard
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2006