Hencher with burned hands grasped the wheel that would turn the boom its quarter circle and position the horse over quay, not over barge, he felt a fresh wind on his cheek and tilted his head, opened his eyes, and saw his second vision of the horse: up near the very tip of the iron arm, rigid and captive in the sling of two webbed bands, legs stiff beneath it, tail blown out straight on the wind and head lifted—they had wrapped a towel round the eyes—so that high in the air it became the moonlit spectacle of some giant weather vane. And seeing one of the front legs begin to move, to lift, and the hoof—that destructive hoof—rising up and dipping beneath the slick shoulder, seeing this slow gestureof the horse preparing to paw suddenly at the empty air, and feeling the tremor through his fingers still lightly on the bar: “Let him down, Hencher, let him down!” he cried, and waved both hands at the blinded and hanging horse even as it began to descend.
Until the boom regained its spring and balance like a tree spared from a gale; until the drum, released, clattered and in its rusty mechanism grew still; until the four sharp hoofs touched wood of the quay. Cowles— first up the ladder and followed by Jimmy Needles the jockey and Lovely the stableboy—reached high and loosed the fluttering towel from round its eyes. The boy approached and snapped a lead-rope to the halter and the jockey, never glancing at the others or at the horse, stepped up behind him, whispering: “Got a fag for Needles, mister? Got a fag for Needles?” Not until this moment when he shouted, “Hencher, don’t leave me, Hencher …” and saw the fat naked arm draw back and the second lantern sail in an arc over the water, and in a distance also saw the white hindquarters on the van’s ramp and dark shapes running—not until this moment was he grateful for the little hard cleft of fingers round his arm and the touch of the bow-legged figure still begging for his fag but pulling and guiding him at last in the direction of the cab’s half-open door. Cowles had turned the petcocks and behind them the barge was sinking.
These five rode crowded together on the broad seat, five white faces behind a rattling windscreen. Five menwith elbows gnawing at elbows, hands and pairs of boots confused, men breathing hard and remaining silent except for Hencher who complained he hadn’t room to drive. In labored first gear and with headlights off, they in the black van traveled the slow bumping distance down the length of the cargo shed, from plank to rotted plank moved slowly in the van burdened with their own weight and the weight of the horse until at the corner of the deserted building—straight ahead lay darkness that was water and all five, smelling sweat and river fumes and petrol, leaned forward together against the dim glass— they turned and drove through an old gate topped with a strand of barbed wire and felt at last hard rounded cobblestones beneath the tires.
“No one’s the wiser now, lads,” said Hencher, and laughed, shook the sweat from his eyes, took a hand off the wheel and slapped Cowles’ knee. “We’re just on a job if anyone wants to know,” smiling, both fat hands once more white on the wheel. “So we’ve only to sit tight until we make Highland Green … eh, Cowles … eh, Needles … eh, Mr. Banks?”
But Michael himself, beneath the jockey and pressed between Cowles’ thick flank and the unupholstered door, was tasting lime: smells of the men, smells of oil, lingering smells of the river and now, faint yet definite, seeping through the panel at his back, smells of the horse—all these mixed odors filled his mouth, his stomach, and some hard edge of heel or brake lever or metal that thrust down from the dash was cutting into his ankle, hurting the bone. Under his buttocks he felt the crookedshape of a spanner; from a shelf behind the thin cushions straw kept falling; already the motor was overheated and they were
Until the boom regained its spring and balance like a tree spared from a gale; until the drum, released, clattered and in its rusty mechanism grew still; until the four sharp hoofs touched wood of the quay. Cowles— first up the ladder and followed by Jimmy Needles the jockey and Lovely the stableboy—reached high and loosed the fluttering towel from round its eyes. The boy approached and snapped a lead-rope to the halter and the jockey, never glancing at the others or at the horse, stepped up behind him, whispering: “Got a fag for Needles, mister? Got a fag for Needles?” Not until this moment when he shouted, “Hencher, don’t leave me, Hencher …” and saw the fat naked arm draw back and the second lantern sail in an arc over the water, and in a distance also saw the white hindquarters on the van’s ramp and dark shapes running—not until this moment was he grateful for the little hard cleft of fingers round his arm and the touch of the bow-legged figure still begging for his fag but pulling and guiding him at last in the direction of the cab’s half-open door. Cowles had turned the petcocks and behind them the barge was sinking.
These five rode crowded together on the broad seat, five white faces behind a rattling windscreen. Five menwith elbows gnawing at elbows, hands and pairs of boots confused, men breathing hard and remaining silent except for Hencher who complained he hadn’t room to drive. In labored first gear and with headlights off, they in the black van traveled the slow bumping distance down the length of the cargo shed, from plank to rotted plank moved slowly in the van burdened with their own weight and the weight of the horse until at the corner of the deserted building—straight ahead lay darkness that was water and all five, smelling sweat and river fumes and petrol, leaned forward together against the dim glass— they turned and drove through an old gate topped with a strand of barbed wire and felt at last hard rounded cobblestones beneath the tires.
“No one’s the wiser now, lads,” said Hencher, and laughed, shook the sweat from his eyes, took a hand off the wheel and slapped Cowles’ knee. “We’re just on a job if anyone wants to know,” smiling, both fat hands once more white on the wheel. “So we’ve only to sit tight until we make Highland Green … eh, Cowles … eh, Needles … eh, Mr. Banks?”
But Michael himself, beneath the jockey and pressed between Cowles’ thick flank and the unupholstered door, was tasting lime: smells of the men, smells of oil, lingering smells of the river and now, faint yet definite, seeping through the panel at his back, smells of the horse—all these mixed odors filled his mouth, his stomach, and some hard edge of heel or brake lever or metal that thrust down from the dash was cutting into his ankle, hurting the bone. Under his buttocks he felt the crookedshape of a spanner; from a shelf behind the thin cushions straw kept falling; already the motor was overheated and they were
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