BRITISH COMICS
THE BOYHOOD of BERNARD BRIGGS
Episodes 6 – 10
Episode Six of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
|
Young Bernard Briggs and his dog, Tiger, sat on the deck of the barge
that was their home, with a small slice of corned beef on a tin plate between
them. The meat was
their breakfast, all that was left over from supper the previous night. “It
ain’t much for two!” said Bernard. Tiger wagged his tail, then flopped out a
length of tongue and licked his lips. One ear went up. “All right, you can
have it!” said Bernard. Tiger pounced at the plate. Two quick gulps, and the
corned beef had gone. Tiger jumped on to the towpath and bounded away.
Bernard heard a brief scuffle. Tiger trotted back with a dead rat in his
mouth. He dropped the offering at Bernard’s feet. “Cor!” said Bernard. “It’s
a kind thought, Tiger, but get rid of it! I could eat a horse, but I draw the
line at a rat!” At the age of eleven, Bernard was on his own. He lived on the
barge by permission of Mr Owen, who owned the wharf and the factory it
belonged to. Mr Owen was also a football referee, and he had been impressed
by Bernard’s skill at football. Permission to use the old barge was the only
help that Bernard would accept. He was fiercely
independent, and he was trying to keep himself by dealing in scrap. He had
the use of an errand-boy’s bike in return for making deliveries for Mr Smith,
the grocer to whom the bike belongs. All this and school as well kept him on
the go. It was a hard start in life for the boy who was later to become |
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A burst boot causes a miskick and
Bernard Briggs gives the opposing centre an easy chance to score |
“We save all our unwanted stuff for
the church jumble sale,” he was told at the first house he went to. At the next
house, the door was opened by a tubby man who had a large moustache to make up
for the lack of hair on the top of his head. By his side was a big dog. “Clear
out!” said the man, before Bernard could speak. “We don’t want riff-raff round
here! See him off, Boris!” The dog bounded forward. Tiger shot past Bernard,
leaping at the other dog and barking furiously. The other dog was twice Tiger’s
size, but it turned tail. It bolted back into the house, knocking the man over
in its hurry. That gave Bernard a laugh, but he wasn’t laughing when he
pedalled on to school afterwards. He hadn’t collected as much as a brass washer
on his morning rounds. B. Briggs, scrap dealer, had problems. Mr Robinson, the
school janitor, allowed Bernard to keep Tiger in the basement boiler room.
Bernard installed Tiger down there with a bowl of fresh water to drink, and
hurried away to the classroom. Life was rough inside the classroom as well as
out for Bernard. Mr Moult, his teacher, didn’t like him. The teacher objected
to Bernard’s shabby clothes and his spirited ways. Mr Moult’s idea of the
perfect schoolboy was Cyril Dallow, the class toady, who was always neatly
dressed, and made a habit of rushing to hold open the door for his teacher.
“Today I’m going to tell you about James Watt, the
SUNKEN TREASURE
The youth club had hired a pitch in
the local park for their game. The teams were changing in the shed that served
as dressing rooms when Bernard trundled up on his bike. Bernard had been busy
since leaving school that afternoon, making deliveries of groceries for Mr
Smith.
On his way round with his
deliveries he had also been making enquiries about scrap, with no more luck
than before. Bernard parked his bike against the wall of the shed. Tiger jumped
out of the basket and sat down on guard. Some of the lads in the youth club
team hadn’t met Bernard before, and they looked a bit doubtful when Jackie Carter
introduced him as their substitute goalkeeper. Bernard was certainly a long way
from being the dressiest ‘keeper in youth football. “Your boots look on their
last legs!” one of the boys remarked. “That’s right, mate – mine!” said
Bernard, ramming the boots on. He never bothered with stockings. “Who are we
playing, anyway?” He looked up, and saw a familiar figure going by the window
outside. “Crikey!” he exclaimed. “There’s old Moaner Moult!” “That’s right,
Bernard,” said Jackie. “We’re playing the school. Mr Moult is the referee!” Mr
Moult nearly swallowed his whistle when he saw Bernard trotting out with the
youth club team. He ran to his goal. Mr Robinson, the school janitor, was
standing on the touchline. Mr Moult was officially in charge of the school
team, but only his favourites got picked. Mr Robinson encouraged lads like
Bernard who had talent, but got left out. “You show ‘em, Bernard!” said Mr
Robinson. “I’ll do me best, mister!” said Bernard. The school team won the
toss, and chose to play down the slight slope. Bernard watched his team kick
off. The youth club forwards worked their way down. The school goalkeeper
smothered a shot and cleared. “Nicely done!” called Mr Moult. The school team
swung on to the attack. Their striker ran on to a pass and slammed in a shot.
Bernard dived and fell on the ball. He rolled aside, bounced to his feet and
sent a long throw accurately to his centre-half. The centre-half was slow off
the mark, and he was robbed. Back came the school team. Their right-winger lifted
the ball across. The centre-forward leapt in. Bernard pounced off his line,
went up high, and punched the ball clear. “Wake up, mates!” he roared. The
school piled on the pressure and Mr Moult found enough breath for a shout.
“Swing it about, school!” The ball came loose in the centre and the striker ran
for it. “Shoot!” roared Mr Moult. “We’re playing twelve men!” thought Bernard.
The centre-forward hammered the ball and it hurtled towards the top corner of
the goal. “Goal!” shouted Mr Moult. Bernard took off. At full stretch he clawed
the ball down. He hit the ground and bounded up again. Bouncing the ball, he
dodged a forward who was rushing at him, and booted clear. The ball soared out
to his winger. “Take it outside the back, lad!” shouted Mr Robinson. The winger
went down the line, outside the back. A high cross came over. The youth club
centre-forward pounced on it as a defender rushed at him. “Pass it back!”
yelled Mr Robinson. “You’ve got a man unmarked near the penalty spot!” The
centre-forward hooked the ball back to his unmarked inside man. A quick shot,
and the ball skimmed just outside the post, with the goalkeeper beaten. Mr
Moult gave a blast on his whistle, then strode across to Mr Robinson. “I won’t
have coaching from the touchline!” snapped Mr Moult. “All right, Mr Moult,”
said the janitor. “I’ll stop coaching from the touchline, if you’ll stop
coaching from the middle!” Mr Moult spluttered. But he turned away without
another word. Mr Robinson winked at Bernard. The school piled on the pressure.
The centre-forward burst through and blasted a shot that went past the post.
Bernard brought the ball back and took the goal kick. The toe-cap flew off his
right boot as he connected and the ball bounced feebly away. “Cor!” said
Bernard. The school centre-forward rushed in and hit the ball. It shot past
Bernard and into the goal. Mr Moult blew a blast on his whistle. Bernard
collected the ball and dabbed it down for another goal kick. Mr Moult was
pointing to the centre spot. “What are you doing, Briggs?” he demanded. “That
was a goal!” “Not according to the rules, ref!” said Bernard. “The ball has to
leave the penalty area from a goal kick!” Mr Moult huffed and puffed, then
angrily signalled for the goal kick to be taken again. Time was running out, and
the youth club lads made a last effort to make victory sure. Their
centre-forward broke through with only the goalkeeper to beat. A defender raced
across, went into a sliding tackle, and brought the centre-forward down. Even
Mr Moult had to give a penalty for that. Jackie Carter put the ball on the
spot, and looked round at his mates. Nobody seemed eager to take the kick.
Jackie waved. “You come and take it, Bernard!” he yelled. Bernard ran down the
pitch. He did a shuffle as he reached the ball, then kicked. “Ouch!” he said.
He had kicked with his right foot, the one that had only half a boot. The
goalkeeper dived the wrong way, and the ball shot between the posts. “That
fooled him!” grinned Bernard. “He thought I was bound to use my good boot.”
That was the last kick of the game and the triumphant youth club team trotted
off. “You were great, Bernard!” said one of them. “Any time you want a game,
don’t forget us!” Bernard changed quickly and pedalled off with Tiger in the
basket. Trundling along the towpath, he reached the barge and dismounted. Tiger
jumped down and ran along the towpath. “Come on, pal!” said Bernard. “What have
you got there?” Tiger was crouching over the water, tugging at something with
his teeth. Bernard reached down and pulled out part of an old bedstead.
“Crikey!” said Bernard. He rolled up his sleeve, lay down on the bank, and
groped about in the shallow water. He pulled out an old bicycle wheel, then an
ancient pram. “Good old Tiger!” chortled Bernard. “You knew what I wanted, didn’t
you? This canal’s a proper junk tip!” Bert Lewis, a local scrap dealer, was
just closing his yard when Bernard arrived, pushing his bike. An assortment of
junk was heaped up in the basket of the bike. “A pound for the lot!” said the
dealer. “Done!” said Bernard. “And I’ll have some more for you, tomorrow!” Back
at the barge, Bernard spread out a feast – fish and chips for himself, a piece
of fish for Tiger. “The best meal I’ve had today!” said Bernard. “In fact, the
only meal! Eat up, Tiger! You’re the one who smelled out this supper! We’re in
business again, partner!”
NEXT WEEK—Bernard
finds
himself in an
awkward spot
when a thief takes
a shine to
his bike.
Episode Seven of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
|
Bernard Briggs picked up his bike from the deck of the barge where he
lived. “Time for school, Tiger!” he said. His pup frisked round him, barking
as Bernard lowered his bike on to the canal towpath. He couldn’t
afford a luxury like a watch, but the blare of a hooter from a nearby factory
told him that it was half-past eight. “Stay, Tiger!” ordered Bernard. “Old
Moulty doesn’t like seeing you at school!” Mr Moult was Bernard’s teacher,
and Bernard was a long way from being teacher’s pet. Mr Moult objected to Bernard’s
threadbare sweater and patched jeans, and Bernard’s sturdy independence
irritated him. Bernard was on his own, and determined to make his own way.
Bernard had tidied up the old barge and made it into a home for himself and
his dog. Painted on the side of the barge were the words – “B. Briggs.
General Dealer.” A similar notice was fixed to the frame of the bike. Bernard
was scraping enough to live on by dealing scrap metal. Outside school hours,
he also made deliveries for Mr Smith, a local grocer, and in return Mr Smith
let Bernard use the bike. It was a hard start in life for the lad who was
later to become the best-known goalkeeper in |
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The bicycle thief had thought he was
safe until Bernard’s all-out kick turned the football into a travelling
knock-out. |
“Er – Mr Robinson, would you have
such a thing as a needle and thread?” Mr Moult came out, swinging a handbell.
He frowned at Bernard. “Trying to think of some excuse for playing truant,
Briggs?” he snapped. “Get inside!” Bernard edged past him. Mr Moult followed,
and Bernard walked backwards into the classroom. “Why are you walking like
that, Briggs?” demanded Mr Moult. Cyril Dallow, the class toady, was already at
his desk. He sniggered as he saw Bernard backing towards him. “Hee, hee, Briggs
has ripped the seat of his pants!” said Cyril. Mr Moult grabbed Bernard and
spun him round. “You ragamuffin, Briggs!” snorted Mr Moult. “You get scruffier
every day! I won’t have you coming into my classroom looking like that!” “I’ll
have to go back home then!” said Bernard. “These are the only trousers I’ve
got!” “Don’t be impudent with me!” said Mr Moult. Holding Bernard by the arm,
he hustled him out. “I know where we can smarten you up!” Mr Moult marched
Bernard into the domestic science room. A class of girls was at their desks,
and Miss Parker, the young woman teacher in charge, was handing out some sewing
work. “Miss Parker, I’d like your help in civilizing this urchin!” said Mr
Moult. The girls giggled. Mr Moult pulled Bernard round to display his torn
trousers, and they giggled again. Bernard scowled. He knew that Mr Moult was
trying to make him look small, but Miss Parker didn’t join in the game. “I
don’t see anything to laugh at, girls,” she said briskly. “Accidents can happen
to the best of us! All right, hop behind that screen and get your trousers off,
lad. I’ll mend them for you.” “Thanks, miss, but if you’ll give me a needle and
thread, I’ll have a bash meself,” said Bernard. “I’ve got to learn to do things
on me own.” “Good lad!” smiled Miss Parker. “That’s the spirit! Well, we won’t
keep you, Mr Moult.” Mr Moult trudged away with the feeling that his idea had
misfired somewhere. Behind the screen, Bernard sat wrapped in a length of old
curtain and codged away at his trousers with needle and thread. “Girls are
cleverer than they look!” he muttered. “This sewing lark ain’t easy!” He
shifted in his chair to get more light from a nearby window and a movement
caught his eye. A loutish young fellow was dodging away across the playground,
and he was pushing Bernard’s bike. “My bike!” gasped Bernard. “That yobbo’s
pinching it!” Miss Parker and the girls were startled as the screen crashed
over. Bernard came bursting out in his stockinged feet, clutching the length of
curtain round him. “Sorry, miss, but a thief’s got my bike!” yelled Bernard,
racing for the door. He hared down the corridor and out into the playground.
The thief was pedalling away on the bike. “Come back!” roared Bernard. He
wasn’t dressed for running, but he sprinted out into the street. Mr Robinson
ran after him. “Slow down, Bernard!” shouted the janitor. “You can’t run about
the town like that!” Bernard came to a halt for he had no chance of catching
the young fellow on the bike. The thief disappeared round a corner, and Bernard
walked back. “Get dressed, and we’ll inform the police,” said Mr Robinson. Back
inside the school, Miss Parker was waiting. She held out Bernard’s trousers. “I
finished the job for you, Bernard,” she said. “Smashing!” said Bernard. “That’s
real neat! Hardly shows! Ta very much, Miss Parker!” While Bernard got dressed,
Mr Robinson rang the police, and also Mr Smith. A policeman in a panda car
arrived and took details, but he did not seem very hopeful. By the time the
policeman and Mr Smith left, classes were coming out for the mid-morning break.
Miss Parker and Mr Moult were talking with other teachers as they made their
way to the staff room, and Miss Parker called Bernard over. “Bernard, Mr Moult
was just remarking that he needs a goalkeeper to play against the school team
in a final trial today,” she said. “I’m sure you’re just the lad he’s looking
for! A boy who goes thief hunting dressed in a curtain is afraid of nothing!”
Some of the other teachers nodded agreement, but Mr Moult looked as if he had a
sudden attack of toothache. Bernard grinned. “Thanks, Miss Parker,” he chirped.
“I’ll be happy to play!”
BULL’S EYE FOR BERNARD
Bernard looked very dapper as he trotted out with the rest of the trial
team. He was wearing a reserve strip reluctantly provided by Mr Moult, and he
had on a pair of boots that Mr Robinson had found for him.
“That’s a likely-looking lad,” said
a red-faced man. Mr Moult was coming out to referee the game, and he overheard
the remark. “If it’s Briggs you’re talking about, you couldn’t be more wrong!”
said Mr Moult. “He looks human for once because he’s in borrowed gear! As for
his football, he’s only in the team as a last minute stopgap!” The school team
kicked off and they came surging into the attack, eager to show the reserves a
thing or two. The ball came through on the left, a high one lifted into the
goal area. Bernard hurled himself out and took off. The school centre-forward
jumped too late, and Bernard punched the ball clear. Back came the attackers.
Bernard dived through a tangle of players and came out the other side with the
ball in his hands. He side-stepped a charge and booted the ball away. It soared
towards the centre, and dropped at the feet of the reserve striker. “Shift it,
mate!” yelled Bernard but a quick tackle robbed the reserve player. The school
team were putting on the pressure again. One of their front men tried a snap
shot from well out, hoping to catch Bernard unsighted. Bernard had a glimpse of
the ball at the last second. He went up like a rocket and tipped the ball over
the bar. “Some stopgap!” said the red-faced man. “I have a feeling I’ve seen
you somewhere,” said Mr Robinson. “Are you the father of one of these lads!”
“No,” said the man. “But I often get round to these junior matches. My name’s
Cresswell.” “John Cresswell?” exclaimed Mr Robinson. “Gosh, I can guess why
you’re here! And Mr Moult was trying to tell you about football! That’s a
laugh!” “That lad Bernard Briggs is keeping them out on his own!” said
Cresswell. The school winger worked the ball down the line. He dodged round the
back and lifted a high one across. Bernard went up, and two of the school
forwards went up with him. Bernard was caught in a sandwich as the two players
shoved and jostled. Bernard grunted as a sharp elbow prodded into his ribs, but
it was Bernard who took the ball, his hands slapping firmly round it. The three
of them collapsed in a heap as Mr Moult blew a solo on his whistle. “And about
time!” muttered Bernard’s left-back, then he stared for Mr Moult was pointing
at the penalty spot. “Hey, what’s that for, ref?” the back demanded.
“Obstruction by the goalkeeper!” said Mr Moult. “Blimey, you must be joking!”
said the back. Mr Moult went red, and Bernard pushed the back away. “Don’t
argue with the ref, mate!” said Bernard. “A penalty it is, if he says so! Mind
you the award for an obstruction is an indirect free kick.” Mr Moult dumped the
ball down on the penalty spot. From the touchline, Mr Robinson and Mr Cresswell
watched. The school striker took a run and hammered the ball. Bernard dived
full length, got a touch and killed most of the pace, but the ball spun away.
Bernard rolled like a cat and slapped his hand down again, checking the ball on
the line. He lay without moving as Mr Moult ran up. “Thought I’d stay here so
you could check it hasn’t gone over, ref!” grinned Bernard. Mr Moult grunted,
but even he couldn’t award a goal. Bernard had obviously held the ball before
it crossed the line. The attacks on Bernard’s goal continued, as the reserve
defence was shaky, and the school team kept breaking through. They got as far
as the goal area, but no further. Bernard had the shutters up, and nothing got
past him. “There must be a one-way sign up!” panted Bernard, dropping to
smother yet another shot. He bounced to his feet, clutching the ball. A forward
lunged at him, and Bernard stood firm. They met shoulder to shoulder, and it
was the forward who bounced off. Bernard dodged away, dropped the ball, and
swerved it past an opponent. He ran the ball down the field, and his team mates
raced to keep up with him. Bernard glanced towards the touchline, intending to
put a pass out to his winger. Beyond the touchline was a line of spiked
railings, with a road on the other side. Cycling along the road was a youth on
an errand-boy’s bike. “Stone the crows, it’s him!” shouted Bernard. “The thief
and my bike! Hey, stop you!” The young fellow on the stolen bike looked round in
alarm, then he began to pedal faster. Bernard tapped the ball forward and
booted it. The ball shot away and soared over the railings. The thief gave a
yell as the ball clouted him on the side of the head. He swerved, and crashed
down in the road “Briggs! What are you doing?” shouted Mr Moult. Bernard didn’t
stay to answer. He was sprinting towards the railings. Over he went, and he
heard a ripping noise. “Cor, I’ve torn my pants again!” gasped Bernard. The
thief was scrambling to his feet. He made a grab at the bike, then changed his
mind when he saw Bernard pounding at him, fists clenched. The thief swerved
away, almost into the path of an approaching van. Horn blaring, tyres
screaming, the van skidded. It missed the thief, but there was a crash as it hit
the bike. Then came a bang. The van had gone over the football as well. The
thief raced away as the shaken van driver got out. Bernard dragged the wrecked
bike from under the van. Mr Moult came hurrying up. He had left the field by a
gate further up. He was followed by Mr Robinson and Mr Cresswell. “It was the
only way I could think of to stop the thief,” said Bernard. “And a fat lot of
good it’s done you!” said Mr Moult. “The bike’s wrecked!” “The van went over
the ball as well,” said Bernard. “Sorry about that!” “And look at your shorts!”
fumed Mr Moult. “A great tear in them! You’ve ruined the reserve strip I lent
you! You’re not to be trusted, Briggs! I’ll make sure you never play in a
school game again!” “But he will play for
NEXT WEEK—Three
toughs
find it doesn’t
pay to ill-
treat Bernard’s
pup, Tiger
Episode Eight of: The
Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken from The Wizard
|
“Sorry, Mr Smith, the bike’s a write-off!” said Bernard Briggs. Mr
Smith, a local grocer, studied the bike that Bernard had propped against the
fence in the yard at the back of the shop. The front wheel of the bike was
buckled, the handlebars bent. “It’s not your
fault, Bernard,” said Mr Smith. “You did well getting it back.” Outside
school hours, Bernard had been doing deliveries for Mr Smith, and he had the
use of the bike in return. A thief had stolen the bike, and Bernard had
managed to get it back, but not before the bike had been run over by a van.
“I’ll pay for it to be repaired,” said Bernard. “Never mind that about that,
lad,” replied Mr Smith. “Something’s come up. My insurance company say you’re
too young to be delivering for me. It’s the law that I have to insure anybody
who works for me, so that means I can’t give you a job any longer.” “Coo,
that’s a shaker!” said Bernard. “I’m sorry about it, Bernard,” said Mr Smith.
“I know you need the job, and you’re the best lad I’ve ever had working for
me, but there it is. Hang on, I’ll get a few odds and ends from the shelves
to tide you over.” “Thanks, Mr Smith, but I don’t take anything I can’t pay
for,” said Bernard. “You’ve been pretty decent to me, and I don’t want to end
up in you debt.” Bernard was already showing the fierce independence that was
to mark him all through his life. He was on his own, and he lived in an old
barge with his dog, Tiger. He made a living by dealing in junk, and the bike
had helped him to get about the district, collecting scrap. It was a hard
beginning for the boy who was to become |
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A simple training session is interrupted
to allow Bernard to keep goal and an enterprising news photographer grabs a
scoop. |
The familiar thunk of a football
being booted made him look up. Some of the boys were kicking a football about.
One of the lads took a wild swing, and the ball skidded off his toe. “Cor, the
window!” gasped Bernard. The ball was shooting towards one of the school
windows. Bernard sprinted forward, took off like a rocket, his outstretched
hands clawing the ball down. Still clutching the ball, Bernard dropped on the
hard surface of the playground. He rolled over and bounced to his feet.
“Bernard’s saved it!” one of the boys gasped. “Thanks, Bernard!” “You’ve got
plenty of nerve!” another boy exclaimed. “Fancy throwing yourself about on a
surface like this! You all right?” “It ain’t done my trousers much good,”
grinned Bernard, “but they weren’t up to much to begin with!” A familiar voice
interrupted him. “Briggs!” Mr Moult, the teacher of Bernard’s class, came
striding up. Mr Moult had favourites,
but Bernard certainly wasn’t one of them. The teacher pointed at the ball that
Bernard was still holding. “Playing football near the school buildings,
Briggs!” snapped Mr Moult. “You know the punishment for that! It is against the
rules.” A window opened near Mr Moult and the headmaster looked out. “Are you congratulating
Bernard Briggs on his brilliant save, Mr Moult?” asked the head. “The ball
would have been through my study window if he hadn’t stopped it.” “Oh!” said Mr
Moult. “Well done, Briggs!” said the head. “As for you other boys, there’s no
harm done this time, so we’ll say no more about it! Into school with you!” The
boys trooped into school and Tommy Henderson winked at Bernard. “The head’s a
sport,” said Tommy. “Old Moulty looked like a cat that’s had a minute taken off
it” But you’re a blooming tough mouse, Bernie!” The boys settled down at their
desks as Mr Moult marched in, frowning at Bernard. “The school secretary has
asked me to pass on a telephone message, Briggs,” he said. “You are to be at
THE HEADLINE SAVE
Any day spent in Mr Moult’s
classroom was a long one, but Bernard was free at last. He shot down the road.
“I’ve just got time to visit Alfie’s yard before the practice game,” he
thought. Junk was strewn everywhere in Alfie’s yard, and Alfie was untidy to
match.
He
was a thin, drooping man who wore a ragged overcoat down to his ankles, winter
and summer, and his bowler hat seemed to be prevented from dropping over his
eyes by his big ears. “I ain’t selling junk today, Alfie,” said Bernard. “I
want to buy some.” “Do you fancy a nice mangle?” said Alfie. “Or how about a
set of saucepans with the lids missing?” “I want to build myself a bike,”
explained Bernard, starting to explore a mountain of junk. “Can I look for the
parts?” “You’ll find enough parts there for the Tour de France,” said Alfie as
Bernard unearthed a bicycle frame. He ferreted about, and more pieces emerged.
Soon he had bits and pieces spread out all round him, and he started work on a
jigsaw puzzle, matching up his finds. “These will do,” he said, dumping a frame
and a pair of wheels into an old pram. “How much, Alfie?” “Five bob,” said
Alfie. “Half-a-crown, and throw in the pram to take them away in!” said
Bernard. “You’ll ruin me!” said Alfie. “All right, Bernard, it’s a deal! I’m
too good natured, that’s my trouble!” Bernard trundled his pramload of bicycle
parts down the road. He heard a clock striking the half-hour, and broke into a
run. He skidded the pram round a corner, and there in front of him was the
Saracen Park Stadium. It was an imposing building, and over the main entrance
were the words “Harlequins F.C.” “The district selectors are doing us proud,
fixing up the practice game here,” muttered Bernard. He found a door open, and
pushed his pram inside. He went along a tunnel under the stand, and came out on
the cinder track. Some players were kicking a ball on the pitch. They were not
schoolboys, and they had the look of professionals. “Who are this lot?”
muttered Bernard. “They ain’t our blokes, anyway! We must be on after them!” He
watched with interest as a player took a shot at goal. The goalkeeper pounced
across and pulled the ball down. “Pretty flashy!” was Bernard’s verdict. He
left his pram and strolled round to the goal. The players were banging shots
in. The goalkeeper bounded about collecting the ball with dramatic saves. A
newspaper man with a camera was standing near the goal. He glanced at Bernard.
“Worth watching, eh, lad?” he remarked. “Not bad!” said Bernard. “But he’s a
bit of a show off! He’s using up a lot of energy – more than he needs to.”
Another man was near the goal. He wore a track-suit, and was obviously the team
coach. He looked sharply at Bernard. “You think you know all about football?”
he said, speaking with a foreign accent. “Not me, mister,” said Bernard, “but
I’m interested in goalkeeping.” Another shot came hurtling in and the goalkeeper
dived across. He was a tall dark fellow with a long reach. He thrust out his
hand and pushed the ball round the post. “He could have saved that,” said
Bernard. “It looked fancy, but he needn’t have given away a corner!” “You think
you could do better?” said the coach. He beckoned to the goalkeeper and winked.
“There is an expert here who is ready to give you a lesson, Ugo!” “He is
welcome to try!” grinned the goalkeeper. “I don’t mind having a bash!” said
Bernard. “It’ll be a nice warm up before our lot get here.” The goalkeeper came
off, and Bernard trotted out to the goal. The players exchanged grins, as one
of them banged the ball at Bernard. He got his body behind the it and clutched
the ball to him. “Oof!” he muttered, “I’ve taken something on here! These
fellows hit a ball a lot harder than they do in schools football!” He slung the
ball out, back it came. Bernard jumped across the goal and pulled it down. He
booted it away, and was in position to go down low for the return. The coach
and the goalkeeper exchanged glances. The cameraman chuckled. “Surprise,
surprise!” he said. Bernard pulled another shot down. He dived to smother a low
one. He punched one clear. Shots rained in on him, but he kept his goal intact.
“So small, just a schoolboy, and yet he is reaching them all!” muttered the
coach. “It’s anticipation,” said the cameraman. “Being in the right place at
the right time makes up for his lack of inches. This lad is a natural!” He
levelled his camera. A player ran in and slammed the ball for the top corner of
the net. Bernard took off like a rocket. His hands closed confidently round the
ball. “A great picture!” muttered the cameraman. “It’ll make a nice headline –
Schoolboy Gives Goalkeeping Lesson to Ugo Parsoni!” Bernard booted the ball
away. The cameraman called to him. “What’s your name, lad?” “Bernard Briggs,”
said Bernard, “and what’s happened to the West District team I’m supposed to be
playing for?” “Gosh, you’re at the wrong place!” exclaimed the cameraman. The
West District pitch is over at
NEXT WEEK—Bernard
meets
up with some old
enemies
and comes off
worst.
Episode Nine of: The
Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken from The Wizard
|
Bernard Briggs sat on the canal towpath with the parts of a bicycle
scattered round him. The old barge in which he lived was moored nearby. He slid a wheel
into place between the front forks of the bicycle frame and tightened the
nuts. “It’s taking shape, Tiger!” he said. Tiger, Bernard’s dog, wagged his
tail. Like Bernard the dog was an outcast. Bernard was alone in the world,
but he was determined to make it his own way. Painted on the side of the
barge were the words: “B. Briggs. General Dealer.” Bernard scrapped a living
by dealing in scrap metal. He needed a bike to get about looking for the
metal, so he was making one from old parts bought cheap at a junkyard. It was
not a promising start in life for the boy who was to become |
|
|
Outnumbered three-to-one Bernard puts up
a desperate fight against the thugs who have attacked him. |
Now he stood warily watching as the
three advanced on him. “You jumped us last time, kid!” said the leader. “Took
us by surprise! But now we’re going to teach you to mind your own business!”
“We’ll fix you and that stupid pup!” gloated his crony. “Hop it, this is
private property!” said Bernard defiantly, but he knew he was in a tight spot.
Bernard always dealt with trouble the same way – he went straight at it. He
believed that attack was the best defence. Head down, Bernard plunged forward.
He slammed into one of the toughs. The lout gave an anguished yelp and
staggered back. Doubled up, he sat down with a thud. The second lout rushed at
Bernard fists swinging. Bernard ducked under a wild haymaker and clipped the
tough on the jaw. The tough joined his pal on the ground. Bernard was too late
to meet an attack from the leader of the gang. The tough had found a stake in
the rough grass by the towpath, and he came rushing in, swinging the wooden
stake like a club. Bernard started to turn, but a blow from the stake thudded
into his ribs. Bernard gasped, and went down. He pushed himself up as the
leader of the gang strode at him, his club lifted. There was a triumphant leer
on the tough’s face. A snarling fury leapt at him and the tough gave a startled
shout as sharp teeth tore at his sleeve. “Good old Tiger!” gasped Bernard. “See
him off!” Tiger had climbed out of the canal unnoticed. There was fear on the
tough’s face as he tried to shake the dog off. Tiger held on to the sleeve,
snarling savagely. He was no longer the helpless pup that the louts had tried
to drown. He was now almost fully grown, and anybody who tried to harm his pal
Bernard could look out for trouble. The other two toughs were struggling to
their feet. Their leader screeched at them. “Help! Get this brute away from
me!” Bernard stood ready, his fists clenched, but the two toughs showed no
eagerness to take on both Bernard and his dog. They started to edge away as
their leader went down with Tiger on top of him. The lout lay there, hardly
daring to move a muscle, with Tiger standing over him and snarling into his
face. “Call him off!” the lout croaked. “Reckon you’ve found out why I call him
Tiger!” grinned Bernard. “Clear off! If you come round here again, I’ll tell
Tiger to bite your head off! O K, Tiger, let him up!” Bernard and Tiger watched
the lout scuttle away to join his pals. Bernard bent down to pat Tiger.
“Thanks, pal!” he said. He winced. “Ouch! I’m sore! I got clobbered a bit in
that dust-up! I’ll leave my bike for now. What I want is an early night!”
THE FOOTBALL FLOP
Bernard was up early the next
morning. He had had a restless night. “I can’t get comfortable in bed,” he told
Tiger. “Coo, that yobbo really laid it on! He caught me a right clout across
the ribs with his stick.
Bernard finished off the job of
assembling his bike. He worked slowly, and when he turned the completed bike
over on to its wheels he gave a gasp. “Phew!” said Bernard. “Sorry to puff and
wheeze like an old gaffer, but I am sore, Tiger!” He pumped up the tyres,
pausing now and then to straighten up. “Even this job is hard work!” he
grunted. “Maybe the pump ain’t as good as it might be.” The bike was all ready
for its trial run. Bernard made sure that food and water were set out in
Tiger’s dishes on the deck of the barge. “I’m off pal!” he said. “Stay! I’ll
see you after school.” Scrambling into the saddle, Bernard pedalled away. He
trundled slowly down
NEXT WEEK—Bernard
meets
a new footballing
opponent—
Mr Moult.
Episode Ten of: The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs taken
from The Wizard
|
With his dog, Tiger, following behind, Bernard Briggs pushed his
home-made bike into Alfie’s junkyard. Balanced on the saddle of the bike
Bernard had a sack full of assorted bits of scrap metal. Alfie came out
of his hut, dressed as usual in his long overcoat and bowler hat. Bernard
propped his bike against the side of the hut and lifted the sack down.
“Ouch!” said Bernard, pulling a face. “Anything wrong, lad?” said Alfie. “You
don’t look too spry to me.” “Got a bruise on my ribs, Alfie,” explained
Bernard. “It’s playing me up a bit.” Bernard had received the injury fighting
off three toughs who had attacked him and his dog. One of the toughs had
caught Bernard a nasty blow with a stick. Bernard was getting more than his
share of hard knocks, of one sort and another. He was alone in the world, and
he and Tiger lived on an old canal barge. Bernard managed to make a living by
dealing in scrap metal. It was not a promising start in life for the lad who
was later to become |
|
|
Mr Moult protests his innocence as he
stands over the unconscious Bernard Briggs. What’s wrong with the injured
keeper? |
“I’m getting old and daft, that’s my trouble!” he
muttered. “A bed and a bob for that stuff! Many more deals like that, and I’ll
be bankrupt!” He went into his hut, still talking to himself. “So what?” he
mumbled. “You’ve done a good turn, Alfie! Gives you a nice feeling, don’t it? A
kid like Bernard, full of spirit, deserves a bit of encouragement!” Bernard was
certainly full of spirit, but he had an empty stomach, and he felt twinges from
his sore ribs as he struggled on with his bike and the bed. “Phew!” he said.
“Let’s have a rest, Tiger! Look, there’s a fish-and-chip shop. We’ll take
Alfie’s advice and spend his shilling. Leaving the bike and bed outside,
Bernard went into the shop. He was the only customer, and he settled himself at
a table. The owner, a tubby little man called Fred Phillips, according to the
sign outside, put a plate of fish, chips and peas in front of him. “Tuck in,
lad!” he said. “Great!” said Bernard. “Ta!” Tiger sat up and begged. Bernard
gave him a chip. “Watch it, pal,” grinned Bernard. “They’re hot!” The door was
shoved open, and a hulking young fellow in a leather jacket came swaggering in.
He gave a leer when he caught sight of Bernard. “Well, look who’s here!” he
said. “It’s the hero who needs an army to back him up!” exclaimed Bernard. The
young fellow was Hunk Grogan, the leader of the toughs who had attacked
Bernard. It was Grogan who was responsible for Bernard’s sore ribs. Now Grogan
advanced to the table and sent Bernard’s plate flying with a sweep of his arm.
“You’re in my territory now, Briggs!” he said. “And this time we’ll fix you!”
Two of his pals slouched in behind him. Bernard got to his feet. He was
trapped, but he was going to make a fight for it. It never occurred to him to
do anything else. “Now, now, lads!” said Fred Phillips, hopping about nervously
behind his counter. The toughs ignored him. Grogan swung a grubby fist. Bernard
ducked, and Grogan yelled as his fist smacked up against the wall. Bernard had
a glimpse of Tiger scuttling out at the door. “I never imagined Tiger would run
off and leave me!” thought Bernard. He had no time to wonder about his dog’s
disappearance. The toughs were closing in on him. Bernard got his hands under
the table and heaved. The toughs staggered back as the table hit them. It gave
Bernard the seconds he needed. He ran to the counter and vaulted on top.
Reaching over, he snatched up a wire basket of chips from the oven. “How’s your
history, mates?” he said. “Remember how they defended castles in the old days?
They poured boiling oil down on the enemy!” He swung the basket of steaming
chips. Chips and hot fat scattered. The toughs dodged back. “Yeow!” screeched
Grogan. “Watch it! That fat’s scolding hot!” Tiger scampered back into the
shop, a strip of black cloth in his teeth. Behind him came two policemen.
“Officer, quick!” yelled Fred Phillips. “There’s trouble!” “The Grogan gang!”
said one of the policemen. “Got ‘em in the act at last!” Grogan made a dash for
the door. He came to a sudden stop as the long arm of the law wrapped round
him. ! Anybody else thinking of leaving?” said the policeman. Grogan seemed to
be turning slowly blue in the officer’s grasp. The other two toughs decided to
stay where they were. “Good!” said the policeman. He slackened his grip
slightly. “You can start breathing again, Grogan!” The other policeman pointed
as Tiger. “There’s the dog we were after!” he exclaimed. “The brute attacked
me!” Bernard had climbed down off the counter. He took the piece of cloth from
Tiger’s jaws. The cloth matched a tear in the officer’s trouser leg. “Sorry,
officer,” said Bernard, “but he was just trying to attract your attention.
Tiger’s my dog.” “And he brought us straight here!” said the policeman. “O K,
lad, forget my torn trousers! It’s in a good cause!” The policemen marched
their prisoners away. Bernard set the table back on its feet. “Sorry about the
mess, mister,” he said to Fred Phillips. “I’ll clean it up.” “Forget it, lad,”
said Fred. “I’ll see to that. And here’s another helping of fish and chips for
you. You’ve earned it for getting rid of the Grogan bunch. They’ve been
terrorizing the neighbourhood.” While Fred mopped the floor. Bernard and Tiger
shared the fish and chips. Bernard felt a lot better with some food under his
belt. “Can I leave my bed here and pick it up tomorrow, mister?” he asked.
“I’ve got an idea for transport.” “You’re welcome,” said Fred. “Stick it in
this cupboard behind the counter.” Bernard cycled home to his barge with Tiger
sitting on the carrier of his bike. At the barge he had an old pram which he
had been using to collect scrap in. Using odds and ends of junk, and a lot of
ingenuity, Bernard set to work to fix the pram to the bike as a sidecar.
DOWN AND OUT!
Bernard had another restless night
and his injured side felt no easier when he got up, but he set off doggedly for
school. Mr Moult, his teacher, didn’t approve of Bernard, and he was always
looking for a chance to catch him out.
Bernard didn’t intend to give him a
chance. “Seen the team list, Bernard?” asked Olly Potter, one of his pals, when
they met in the playground. “What team?” said Bernard. “This is the day
teachers from local schools play a selected team of boys,” explained Olly.
“You’re down as goalkeeper for the boys’ team.” “Great!” said Bernard. “I never
say no to a game of football!” Mr Moult didn’t make such a nuisance of himself
as usual in class. He had a pile of books to mark, so he set the class some
work to do while he got on with it. As soon as the bell rang, he dismissed the
class and hurried off, pausing only to tell Bernard that there’d be trouble if
the written work he’d handed in wasn’t up to standard. “That’s the only knock
he’s had at you today, Bernard,” said Olly. “Things are looking up!” “He was in
a hurry to get off,” said Bernard, “and I can guess why, Cannonball Moult is
playing for the teachers today!” Standing in goal soon afterwards, Bernard saw
that he had guessed right. Mr Moult, immaculate in spotless strip, took up his
position as centre-forward in the teacher’s team. “He’ll be out to put a few
past me,” thought Bernard. “Well, he’s welcome to try!” The referee was Mr
Owen, a local businessman who had seen Bernard play before, and admired his
ability. Mr Owen tootled on his whistle, and the game began. The teachers’ winger
broke through along the line. He put the ball over and Mr Moult came pounding
up. He took a mighty swing and spooned the ball up into Bernard’s hands.
“You’ll have to hit ‘em harder than that!” grinned Bernard. Bernard cleared but
back came the teachers. Bernard jumped to pull down a shot from their
inside-left. He booted the ball away, and his team started an attack. The two
sides were fairly evenly matched. Some of the teachers were a bit short of
wind, but they had weight and experience to compensate. They held the attack,
and the left-back got clear with the ball. Mr Moult clapped his hands. “To me!”
he ordered. A long pass found him, and he strode for goal. He was through with
only Bernard to beat. He took a kick, and the ball soared away. Bernard had not
moved. He stood by the post and watched the ball go high over the crossbar. “I
knew he was going to do that,” said Bernard. “He hit it all wrong!” He didn’t
bother to keep his voice down, and Mr Moult scowled. Goals were slow to come,
but soon after half-time, Bernard got his forwards away. He jumped out to
collect a cross, pulling it down before Mr Moult could get there. Bernard slung
the ball away, and it landed at the feet of one of his team-mates. The boy
raced the ball past a defender, slid a pass across, and the school striker hit
the ball into the net. “Goal!” shouted Bernard, doing a jig. He winced, and put
a hand to his side. “Cor, that bruise is playing me up!” he muttered. “But I’m
sticking it out to the final whistle.” The teachers hit back. Mr Moult was
beginning to puff a bit, but he panted about, yelling for the ball. The winger
tried to find him with a long pass and Mr Moult charged in pursuit of the ball.
Bernard ran out of his goal. Bernard scooped the ball up. Mr Moult came at him like
a charging buffalo. Clutching the ball, Bernard dodged aside. Mr Moult went
straight on, and ended up tangled in the net at the back of the goal. There
were guffaws from the boys watching on the touchline. Mr Moult disentangled
himself and marched up to Bernard, red in the face. “Are you trying to make me
look a fool, Briggs?” he snapped. Bernard might have answered that Mr Moult was
doing a good job without any help, but he said nothing. “Just watch your step,
Briggs!” said Mr Moult. Mr Owen came across to them. “You’re not in school now,
Mr Moult,” he said. “If anybody needs telling off, I’ll do it! Now let’s get on
with the game!” The game swung from end to end, and with time running out the
teachers were still one down. They put everything into a last effort, and came
bearing down on Bernard’s goal. The ball ran to Mr Moult who shouldered a
defender aside and crashed through with the ball at his feet. “He means to
score or bust!” thought Bernard. “Well, he ain’t putting one past me at this
stage of the game!” Bernard hurled himself out. He went down in a dive at Mr
Moult’s feet, and his outstretched hands clamped on the ball. There were yells
from the touchline. “What a dive!” one of them shouted. “Bernard’s afraid of
nothing!” Bernard went down flat, clinging to the ball and Mr Moult jumped over
him. Mr Owen blew his whistle and ran across. “Bernard’s passed out!” exclaimed
Mr Owen. “He’s unconscious!” “I didn’t kick him!” gasped Mr Moult. “I never
touched him, I swear I didn’t!” Bernard woke up on an inspection couch in the
local hospital. A doctor was examining him, and Mr Owen and Mr Moult were
looking on. “Ouch!” said Bernard. “Watch where you’re prodding, mister!” “Looks
as if you’ve got some broken ribs!” said the doctor. “We’ll get you X-rayed, lad.”
“But I tell you I didn’t touch him!” protested Mr Moult, nervously. “I got
clobbered two or three days ago,” said Bernard. Bernard was taken to the X-ray
room, and then the doctor put a strapping round his ribs. “Three cracked ribs!”
said the doctor. “The lad must have been in agony. He fainted from the pain.”
“But he still played a storming game in goal!” said Mr Owen. “You ought to be
proud to have Bernard in your class, Mr Moult.” Mr Moult grunted. Now that he
knew he was not responsible for Bernard’s injury, he was not interested. “I’ve
wasted enough time here,” he said and hurried out. “Beats me why a man who
dislikes boys so much should be a school teacher!” said Mr Owen. “How do you
feel, Bernard?” “Great!” said Bernard. “The strapping makes it a lot easier.
Ta, doc!” “Take it easy for a while,” warned the doctor. “You’ll have to come
and see us again for a check-up.” “O K, doc,” said Bernard. “But it won’t hurt
to ride my bike, will it? I’ve got a job to do. Thanks again! And you too, Mr
Owen.” He hurried out. The doctor and Mr Owen exchanged smiles. “He’s quite a
lad!” said the doctor. “Remember the name, doctor,” said Mr Owen. “I’ve got an
idea he’ll turn out to be one of your most famous patients in time!” With Tiger
sitting in the pram. Bernard pedalled his bike and sidecar to Fred’s
fish-and-chip shop to collect his bed. Fred helped him to lift the bed into the
pram. “And here’s a helping of fish and chips for your supper, Bernard,” said
Fred. “I’m doing a roaring trade now the Grogan gang aren’t around!” “Thanks a
lot, mister!” said Bernard. “I reckon it’s turned out a pretty good day! And
I’ll get a good sleep tonight! I’ve got
a lot to catch up on!”
NEXT WEEK—More
trouble
for Bernard when
his home is
condemned.
The Boyhood of Bernard Briggs 20 episodes appeared in The Wizard
© D. C. Thomson & Co Ltd
Vic Whittle 2006