The Railway Children by E. Nesbit & E. Nesbit & Jacqueline Wilson

Author:E. Nesbit & E. Nesbit & Jacqueline Wilson
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780141963600
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2010-02-20T16:00:00+00:00

8

The Amateur Fireman

‘That’s a likely little brooch you’ve got on, Miss,’ said Perks the Porter; ‘I don’t know as ever I see a thing more like a buttercup without it was a buttercup.’

‘Yes,’ said Bobbie, glad and flushed by this approval. ‘I always thought it was more like a buttercup almost than even a real one – and I never thought it would come to be mine, my very own – and then Mother gave it to me for my birthday.’

‘Oh, have you had a birthday?’ said Perks; and he seemed quite surprised, as though a birthday were a thing only granted to a favoured few.

‘Yes,’ said Bobbie; ‘when’s your birthday, Mr Perks?’ The children were taking tea with Mr Perks in the Porters’ room among the lamps and the railway almanacs. They had brought their own cups and some jam turnovers. Mr Perks made tea in a beer can, as usual, and everyone felt very happy and confidential.

‘My birthday?’ said Perks, tipping some more dark brown tea out of the can into Peter’s cup. ‘I give up keeping of my birthday afore you was born.’

‘But you must have been born sometime, you know,’ said Phyllis, thoughtfully, ‘even if it was twenty years ago – or thirty or sixty or seventy.’

‘Not so long as that, Missie,’ Perks grinned as he answered. ‘If you really want to know, it was thirty-two years ago, come the fifteenth of this month.’

‘Then why don’t you keep it?’ asked Phyllis.

‘I’ve got something else to keep besides birthdays,’ said Perks, briefly.

‘Oh! What?’ asked Phyllis, eagerly. ‘Not secrets?’

‘No,’ said Perks, ‘the kids and the Missus.’

It was this talk that set the children thinking, and, presently, talking. Perks was, on the whole, the dearest friend they had made. Not so grand as the Station Master, but more approachable – less powerful than the old gentleman, but more confidential.

‘It seems horrid that nobody keeps his birthday,’ said Bobbie. ‘Couldn’t we do something?’

‘Let’s go up to the Canal bridge and talk it over,’ said Peter. ‘I got a new gut line from the postman this morning. He gave it me for a bunch of roses that I gave him for his sweetheart. She’s ill.’

‘Then I do think you might have given her the roses for nothing,’ said Bobbie, indignantly.

‘Nyang, nyang!’ said Peter, disagreeably, and put his hands in his pockets.

‘He did, of course,’ said Phyllis, in haste; ‘directly we heard she was ill we got the roses ready and waited by the gate. It was when you were making the brekker-toast. And when he’d said “Thank you” for the roses so many times – much more than he need have – he pulled out the line and gave it to Peter. It wasn’t exchange. It was the grateful heart.’

‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Peter,’ said Bobbie, ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Don’t mention it,’ said Peter, grandly, ‘I knew you would be.’

So then they all went up to the Canal bridge. The idea was to fish from the bridge, but the line was not quite long enough.

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