Not Bad for a Bad Lad by Michael Morpurgo
I don’t think I spoke a word to anyone in that place for a month or more. I felt like I was sleepwalking through it all, the two-mile run every morning, laying bricks for hours on end in all weathers, making bread in the kitchens, weeding in the vegetable garden, Mr Roley and the others watching us like hawks the whole time. They never let up on us. We didn’t have a moment to ourselves. But the worst thing wasn’t the work, nor Mr Roley, nor the food, which was always about as disgusting as they could make it, I reckon. It was listening to one of the other lads crying himself to sleep at night. That would always get me going, and I’d be crying myself then. I just couldn’t help it.
There were twenty other lads in my dormitory. I didn’t want to speak to any of them in the early days. I didn’t want to know them. Some nights I turned my face to the wall and just wished I was dead.
And when I wasn’t wishing I was dead, I was dreaming of bunking off, doing a runner, like I sometimes used to do at St Matthias when I got into trouble. But I knew there was no point. I mean, where would I go? Ma didn’t want me at home any more, I knew that. And besides, one or two of the other lads had already tried it, and they were always brought back. True to his word, Mr Roley would have them in the gym and give them ten of the best and we’d have to stand there and watch it too.
So after a while I stopped thinking about running off and I decided I would make the best of a bad job: just do my time, keep my head down, and keep myself out of trouble. My favourite part of every day was the two-mile run we had to do before breakfast, because that’s when we got to go outside the walls, and even down to the beach sometimes, which was only a mile or so away. I liked running, and running fast too, running like I’d never stop. I liked the beach too, and the sea air, and the gulls, and the fishing boats out at sea. All the while I could make-believe I was free, free as the gulls. The other lads – and most of them really hated that early morning run – told me I must be mad to like it, bonkers, off my rocker, but they could say what they liked, I didn’t mind.
There was one place on the run where I sometimes used to slow down to get a better look: the stables. It was a funny thing (and when I think about it, which I do a lot, it was a pretty wonderful thing really), but this Borstal place had some stables, horses’ stables, where a few of the lads used to come to work for a few hours each day.
Every time I ran past there, the horses would be looking out at me, with their heads over the stable doors, and their ears pricked. It was like they were waiting for me to run by. They would look at me and I would look at them. They’d have a good old whinny at me sometimes too and I’d wave back – pretty silly I know, but I could hardly whinny, could I? There was a bit of a whiff coming out of those stables, I can tell you. But I quite liked the smell of horses, always did. It reminded me of the milkman’s horse in our street. Lovely fellow he was – the horse not the milkman.
From time to time, as I ran by, I’d see this old bloke in there with the horses. I knew he was old because he had silvery hair and a moustache to match. Very smart and tidy he always was, the sort of fellow who looked after himself. Everyone called him Mr Alfie, but that’s all I knew about him. I’d seen a few of the lads working in there with him and I’d often thought that wouldn’t be a bad old job if I could get it, better than bricklaying or baking anyway.
But there was something else that really interested me every time I ran past those stables. There was always music. Mr Alfie would be out there in the yard, pushing a wheelbarrow, or grooming the horses, or shovelling muck, and there’d often be music playing on the radio – ‘wireless’ they called it in those days. It was big bands mostly, or jazz, and it was the kind of music I liked, lots of rhythm, and lots of drumming too. And when Mr Alfie had the music on I wouldn’t be running by at all, I’d be trotting, then walking, slowly, very slowly, so I could listen for as long as possible.
One day – and as it turned out it was just about the luckiest day of my life – I was out on the morning run as usual and coming past the stables when I heard the music playing again. I’d slowed right down to a walk and that’s when I saw this Mr Alfie bloke standing there by the fence watching me, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. He called me over, so I went.
“You like horses, son?” he asked me.
“They’re all right.” I told him. “Bit smelly.”
“Of course they are, son. But do you like them?”
“I suppose so.”
“You want to give us a hand with them then?”
“What now?”
“Tomorrow,” Mr Alfie said. “You can start tomorrow. I need another pair of hands. I’ll speak to Mr Roley. I’ve been watching you out on your run and I thought you liked horses. Every time you come past here, you always slow down and have a good long look.”
“That’s because of the music, on the wireless,” I told him. “I like music. I like drumming. I play the drums – I used to anyway.”
“Well, there’s a thing. I’m a bit of a drummer myself,” Mr Alfie said. “Tell you the truth, there’s only one thing I like more than my music, and that’s my horses. Suffolk Punch horses they are and they take a lot of looking after. You don’t mind hard work do you?”
“’Course not,” I told him.
So that’s how, the very next day after breakfast, I found myself helping out in the stables, along with a couple of other lads, giving Mr Alfie a hand with his horses. He’d fixed it up with Mr Roley, just as he’d said he would. From now on, for most of every day, I’d be working with those great big beautiful horses, alongside Mr Alfie. I loved it, loved the horses, loved listening to the music, loved every moment of it all. Mind you, having to leave the horses and go back behind the walls afterwards was always hard, really hard.
I think maybe I should tell you something about Mr Alfie and his horses, because without them none of the rest of this story would have turned out the way it did. I soon found out that Mr Alfie knew more about Suffolk horses than any man alive. He’d even written a book about them. He knew them and he loved them. And these Suffolk horses aren’t your ordinary horses. They are gigantic, I mean massive. They stand higher than your head, however tall you are. And they’re strong. You cannot believe how strong they are. Mr Alfie had grown up with them on the farm when he was a kid and he’d worked with horses of one kind or another, practically all his life, ploughing the fields, mowing the hay. He’d left the farm for a while, to go and fight in the First World War. He’d been there with horses too, mostly with cavalry horses he told me. But for Mr Alfie, his Suffolk horses were always the best. “My gentle giants,” he used to call them.
Every time we went down to the stables we’d be mucking them out, shaking out the straw for their bedding, putting up the hay for them or filling their water buckets. And did they eat a lot, those horses! Did they drink a lot! And did they make a mess! I’d never been kept so busy in all my life and I’d never enjoyed myself so much either, specially when Mr Alfie had his music on. But he kept us at it. We’d be cleaning the tack, polishing the brasses, doing whatever needed doing, and there was always something.
After a while, a couple of weeks it must have been, Mr Alfie began to let me do some of the grooming, and soon enough I was out with the other lads, who’d been stable lads longer than me, exercising the horses, even riding them out sometimes. All the time, he was teaching us how to behave around horses. “You have to treat them the same way you have to treat people,” he told me once. “First you have to try to understand what’s going on in their heads, what they’re feeling. Then you have to respect those feelings. Do that with anyone, and you’ll get on fine. Do it with any horse and you’ll get on fine. It’s as simple as that.” Of course it wasn’t at all simple, because what he didn’t tell me was that it takes a lifetime to get to know how horses feel. I know now that it takes a lifetime to get to know how people feel too. So Mr Alfie was right, twice over.
I reckon I must have been working with the horses for a couple of months or so, and was
I remember that very well because the next moment what Mr Alfie said to me next has stayed in my mind ever since. “You know what I think son?” he said. “I think you’re not bad for a bad lad, not a bad lad at all.” Those few words meant more to me then than I can ever say. They still do. “When you’ve finished with Bella,” he went on, “I’ve got a bit of a job for you.” A few minutes later he was walking me to the end stable.
“In here,” he said, opening the door. “He came in last night. Five-year-old, he is. Dombey, he’s called. He’s not a Suffolk, but he’s as good as. Not quite as big maybe, but the same type. Brown and white. ‘Skewbald’, we call that. Handsome looking fellow isn’t he? But he’s a bit upset.” I could see that. Unlike all the other horses, who were always looking out over their stable doors, all bright-eyed and happy, this one was standing with his head down, in the darkest corner of the stable.
“Where he’s come from they couldn’t manage him,” Mr Alfie told me. “He’s a bit of a handful it seems. Dombey’s had a hard time. Someone’s taken a stick to him, that’s what I think. But he’s strong as you like, kind eye, big heart. He’s a good sort. I know a good sort when I see one. That’s why I’ve taken him on. That’s why I took you on. But Dombey’s frit, and he’s miserable. He’s off his food too. All he needs is someone he can trust, someone who can understand him and gentle him. So I thought, why not you? I want you just to spend time with him, son, talk to him, give him a pat, tell him he’s a good lad, make him feel he’s wanted. He’s got to feel like someone loves him. But watch him, mind. They say he’s got a mighty powerful kick on him.”
Only the next morning I was to find that out for myself. I thought I was doing everything just right. I went into the stable nice and slow, talking to him all the while. His tail swished a bit, so I knew he was a bit nervy. I stood by his head for a long time, just whispering to him, smoothing his neck, stroking his ears gently.
He liked that, everything was fine. He looked happy enough to have me there. After a bit I thought that was probably enough for a first meeting. I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I gave him a goodbye pat and walked out slowly the way I’d come in, behind him. Big mistake. I didn’t even see him kick me, but I felt it all right. The next thing I knew I was lying there on my back in the straw, feeling like a right nitwit.
Mr Alfie was leaning over the stable door. “He kicked you then?” he said, smiling down at me. “Did it hurt?”
“What d’you think?” I told him, rubbing at my leg to ease away the pain.
“Well son, whatever you did, you won’t do it again then, will you?” Mr Alfie said. “It’ll take time. It always takes time to learn to trust someone.” He wasn’t showing me much sympathy. “Anyway,” he went on, looking up at Dombey, who was chomping away at his hay, “Dombey seems to be eating well enough now. So he’s happy about something. You must have done something right then.” That was the thing about Mr Alfie, he always said something to buck you up and make you feel better about yourself.
It took time, just like Mr Alfie had said, for Dombey and me to learn to get along, months of talking to him, of grooming him, of exercising him, of just being with him. He never kicked me again, but then I never gave him cause. I never walked behind him again in the stable. I got to know his little ways, and he got to know mine. He grew to be as bold and as bright-eyed as the others, always looking out over the stable door whenever I came into the yard, waiting for me.
I made two good friends in that stable yard, two of the best I ever had.
Dombey and me became like brothers. I was never so happy in all my life than when I was riding Dombey along the beach. Mr Alfie gave me special permission to do that. He told me I should gallop him through the shallows. He needed it, he said. It would be good for him to stretch his legs and build up his strength. Dombey loved every moment of it and so did I. In one way, he was like a little brother to me, because I was looking after him. But then in another way he was my big brother, because he was big. When he pushed me or shoved me or nudged me, it was only gently and only ever in fun, just to let me know from time to time that this little brother was also a big brother too, and I’d better remember it. I always did.
As for Mr Alfie, well he became the father I never had. And I wasn’t treated any different than the others. He was like that with all of us, all the lads who worked in his yard. Just so long as we worked hard, just so long as we did all we could for his ‘gentle giants’, then he treated us like we were family, like proper family, and most of us had never had that.
Then one morning when I was mucking out Bella’s stable, Mr Alfie came over to me and said he wanted a word. He put his arm round my shoulder as we walked away, so I knew something was up, that something was wrong.
“I’ve got a bit of sad news, son, and a bit of glad news as well,” he said.“Sad news first, eh? Best to get it over with quick. Dombey’s been sold, son. They’re coming to take him away in a couple of hours. But the glad news is that if things turn out as I think they will, then he’ll have a good home for life and a job for life – I’d say just about the best job and the best home a horse could have. And that’ll be down to you, son. You’ve made him a happy horse. The rest was inside him already, all his strength, all his kindness, in his blood you might say. But you made him happy, so he behaves himself now, and where he’s going that’ll be very important.”
“Where is he going?” I asked.
“I can’t tell you that, son, not yet,” Mr Alfie said. “It’s all very hush-hush for the moment. They’ve been to see him and they think he’s just right, just the horse they’re looking for. They’re taking him on trial for six months, but if he’s the horse I think he is and he behaves himself, then they’ll keep him. That’s all I can tell you at the moment. Don’t you go worrying yourself about Dombey, son. There won’t be a horse in the land better looked after and that’s a promise.”
I don’t mind telling you that once Mr Alfie had gone I went into Dombey’s stable, sat down in the straw and sobbed my heart out. Dombey came over to me and nuzzled at my neck to try to cheer me up. Everyone in the yard, all the other lads, knew how I felt about Dombey. They’d ribbed me about him often enough, how we spent so much time together that the two of us were practically married. But they weren’t teasing me any more now. They all had their favourites and they knew well enough how bad I must be feeling.
Later that morning in the stable, I gave Dombey one last hug and told him he was going somewhere where he would be happy, but that he was on trial, so he’d got to behave himself. Mr Alfie let me lead him up into the lorry, where I said my last goodbyes. As they drove him out of the yard we heard him give the tailboard of the lorry a thumping great kick. We all of us laughed at that, which was just as well, because I’d have cried again otherwise.
“You will let me know how he gets on, won’t you?” I asked Mr Alfie as I left the stable that afternoon.
“Of course I will, son,” he said.
But he never did, because when I got to the yard the next day, they told me that Mr Alfie was off sick and he wouldn’t be back for a while. I never got to see him again. A few days later I had a nice surprise. Mr Roley called me in. They’d decided to let me out early, three months early, for good behaviour. Of course I was pleased as punch about that, over the moon, but I never got to say goodbye to Mr Alfie.
Something very strange happens, I discovered, when you come out after you’ve been locked up. Everyone looks at you, in the street, on the buses, in the shops,
For a couple of months I just wandered the streets getting to know all the other stray people – and there’s lots of them out there, believe you me – who were doing much the same thing as me, wandering the streets and wishing the days away. Some of them had been on the streets for years. I didn’t want to end up like them, but I knew that’s the way I was heading and I didn’t think there was much I could do about it.