Free The Tin-Kin by Eleanor Thom Page A

the wooden seat of the cart. There’s just room for the three of us, me squeezed between the two men. We put the blanket across us to keep warm. Daddy takes the reins and we move off with a jolt, past the old mill and the stables where the road’s bumpy. My feet nearly touch the bottom of the cart now, but not quite, so I let my legs swing. To, and my toes scrape the slats, fro, and my heels do the same.
    I love riding up here, and it’ll be even better once the cart starts to fill. Then I can look over my shoulder at the jumble of things and wonder what’s in the bags and where it will end up, whether there’s anything in there for me or maybe something for Uncle Jock. I watch the pony’s haunches as we go the windy road, over the hump-back bridge, heading for the posh houses in the West End. The Bissaker called the pony Hughie after a friend from the war. His coat’s greasy-feeling when you stroke him, and from up here the hairs glint in the light as he shimmys back and forth with the trot.
    Daddy and Jugs talk about something boring till we come to a stop, and then Jugs stays with the pony. It’s me Daddy takes to the door.
    ‘Can I say it? Please, Daddy?’
    ‘Aye, course ye can,’ he says, and pounds on the big blue door. The knocker is a brass bull with a ring through its nose. Soon footsteps are coming from the other side and I swallow. I hope it’s someone nice opening the door. If it’s a nastysookyface old wifey or an ugly brute I’ll be too scared to ask and Daddy’ll have to do it.
    Today’s my lucky day. The lady who answers has a bright yellow cleaning frock and plump cheeks with a flush like an apple. My mouth waters at the thought of apples. I’m sure I’ll get one from someone today. Now it’s my bit. I stick my chin out.
    ‘Any old rags?’ I pipe up.
    She nods, aye! The lady goes back inside her house to fetch them and I look at my Daddy, who’s smiling. He puts his hand on my curls and strokes down to my collar. His hand is rough but warm. We don’t say anything while we wait.
    We go to lots more houses. Some folk say no, not today, or no, they’ve not got a thing, but others have piles of things they’re not wanting. I’m just starting to feel sure of myself when a woman on the corner of Grant Street takes one look at us and her face curdles. She slams the door shut before I can even say my bit, and the slap of it against the frame makes the words go lumpy in my throat, like trying to swallow when you have a cold. Daddy picks me up and carries me back down the path, straight onto the next doorstep. But it doesn’t feel like a game any more and I don’t want to ask the question.
    I cheer up, though, as soon as we get to Darkie Smith’s house. He gives me a biscuit. There are lots of old plates and teacups for Uncle Jugs, and Daddy gets a great pile of wheels and cogs from off of something. There are so many bits and bobs that Jugs has to steady Hughie and help load them on the cart too. With all this metal maybe Uncle Jock could make us a rocket. We could have our own journey into space!
    ‘That’ll dae, then, eh?’ Jugs goes to my daddy, and we head off in the direction of my school.
    Daddy must be reading my mind cause he says to tell Jugs what I’ve been up to at school, only he calls it ‘that place’. Jugs teases me for going to school. Now I’m learning about the world and reading and writing, he says I’m one of the Bread andMargarine Gentry. That’s not a good thing. It’s a tinky who’s getting a bit bigsy. Uncle Jock is one of the Bread and Margarine Gentry too, cause he wears a fancy uniform for his job at the station. Jock hates being cried that, and for a while I pretend not to like it either. I pull a face at Jugs and fold my arms over my chest, but actually I’m pleased me and Uncle Jock are called the same thing.
    ‘What else is it you telt me you liked at that place?’ Daddy says.
    ‘Roly-poly pudding!’
    Daddy and Jugs both go ‘RohwlEE pohwlEE