stranger than the first. The land had been changed after the maps were made.
The maps lived to the right of Truck, in their shallow compartment. Each part of Truck, each fragment of the tiny inner space, was apportioned with equal care. To Monkey’s left was the area designated, in later times at least, Garage Accessories. The Accessories themselves didn’t amount to much. There was a sleekly polished red oil can; beside it, tucked in tightly to prevent unpleasing rattles, the piece of rag with which Monkey furbished the metal, keeping it bright. Next to the oil can lived a tin of thick brown grease, with which Monkey anointed the axles of Truck whenever the elements conspired to draw from them high-pitched, irritating squeaks. Other Accessories were even less prepossessing. There was the galvanized nail with which Monkey prised up the lid of the tin (seconded lately for the important function of journey-marking) a small rusty spanner which fitted nothing about Truck but which Monkey kept anyhow, and an even more curious fetish: a little yellow wheel, made of some substance that flexed slightly in the fingers and was pleasant to hold and suck. Like the spanner, it served no discernible function; but Monkey was equally loth to throw it away. ‘You can never tell,’ he would bawl sometimes at the unresponding heads of Pru and Sal, ‘when it might Come In.’
At Monkey’s feet a locker closed by a rusty metal hasp constituted the Larder. Here he kept the flat grey wheatcakes that sustained him, and his bottles and jars of brook water. Other chunks of rag, stuffed carefully into the spaces between the containers, checked the clinking that would otherwise have spoiled his rest. Next to Larder, a corner compartment was crammed with spare rag, blankets and a blackened lace pillowslip. It also housed a broken piece of mirror, carefully wrapped and tucked away. Once, Monkey had gashed himself badly on its edge; now it was never used.
To either side of his head as he lay were the Tool Chest and the Library. The Tool Chest contained an auger, a small pointed saw, three empty cardboard tubes and a drum of stout green twine. The Library was full to overflowing, so full its lid could scarcely be forced down. Sometimes Monkey would take the topmost books out, lie idly turning the pages, marvelling at the endless repetition of delicate black marks. The marks meant nothing to him; but the books had always been there, and so were accepted and respected. Like Truck, they were a part of his life.
Between its several compartments Truck was fretted by a variety of holes, all seemingly inherent to the structure. The spyholes, covered when not in use by sliding flaps of leather, afforded Monkey sideways and frontal vision. Beneath him, concealed by a hinged wooden trap, was the Potty Hole; to either side smaller apertures, or Crumb Holes, enabled him occasionally to clean the littered interior of Truck. He would spend an hour or more carefully scraping together the mess of wheatcake crumbs, twigs and blanket fluff, pushing the fragments one by one through the holes. The activity had enlivened many a grey, otherwise unedifying afternoon; it cheered him, giving him a sense of purpose.
Pru and Sal formed the other major components of Monkey’s mobile world. How they had come to him, or he to them, he was unsure. Certainly there had been a time - he remembered it now and then in vague, dreamlike snatches -when there had been no Pru and Sal. And also, he was nearly certain, no Truck. He remembered firelight and warmth, and lying on a bed not enclosed by tall wooden sides. He remembered hands that touched, a voice that crooned and cried. Also he remembered a bleak time of wailing and distress. The figures loomed round him, dim and massive as trees; there were other deeper voices, harder hands. One such pair of hands, surely, had placed him for the first time inside Truck. He remembered words, though they made little sense.
‘Lie there,
The maps lived to the right of Truck, in their shallow compartment. Each part of Truck, each fragment of the tiny inner space, was apportioned with equal care. To Monkey’s left was the area designated, in later times at least, Garage Accessories. The Accessories themselves didn’t amount to much. There was a sleekly polished red oil can; beside it, tucked in tightly to prevent unpleasing rattles, the piece of rag with which Monkey furbished the metal, keeping it bright. Next to the oil can lived a tin of thick brown grease, with which Monkey anointed the axles of Truck whenever the elements conspired to draw from them high-pitched, irritating squeaks. Other Accessories were even less prepossessing. There was the galvanized nail with which Monkey prised up the lid of the tin (seconded lately for the important function of journey-marking) a small rusty spanner which fitted nothing about Truck but which Monkey kept anyhow, and an even more curious fetish: a little yellow wheel, made of some substance that flexed slightly in the fingers and was pleasant to hold and suck. Like the spanner, it served no discernible function; but Monkey was equally loth to throw it away. ‘You can never tell,’ he would bawl sometimes at the unresponding heads of Pru and Sal, ‘when it might Come In.’
At Monkey’s feet a locker closed by a rusty metal hasp constituted the Larder. Here he kept the flat grey wheatcakes that sustained him, and his bottles and jars of brook water. Other chunks of rag, stuffed carefully into the spaces between the containers, checked the clinking that would otherwise have spoiled his rest. Next to Larder, a corner compartment was crammed with spare rag, blankets and a blackened lace pillowslip. It also housed a broken piece of mirror, carefully wrapped and tucked away. Once, Monkey had gashed himself badly on its edge; now it was never used.
To either side of his head as he lay were the Tool Chest and the Library. The Tool Chest contained an auger, a small pointed saw, three empty cardboard tubes and a drum of stout green twine. The Library was full to overflowing, so full its lid could scarcely be forced down. Sometimes Monkey would take the topmost books out, lie idly turning the pages, marvelling at the endless repetition of delicate black marks. The marks meant nothing to him; but the books had always been there, and so were accepted and respected. Like Truck, they were a part of his life.
Between its several compartments Truck was fretted by a variety of holes, all seemingly inherent to the structure. The spyholes, covered when not in use by sliding flaps of leather, afforded Monkey sideways and frontal vision. Beneath him, concealed by a hinged wooden trap, was the Potty Hole; to either side smaller apertures, or Crumb Holes, enabled him occasionally to clean the littered interior of Truck. He would spend an hour or more carefully scraping together the mess of wheatcake crumbs, twigs and blanket fluff, pushing the fragments one by one through the holes. The activity had enlivened many a grey, otherwise unedifying afternoon; it cheered him, giving him a sense of purpose.
Pru and Sal formed the other major components of Monkey’s mobile world. How they had come to him, or he to them, he was unsure. Certainly there had been a time - he remembered it now and then in vague, dreamlike snatches -when there had been no Pru and Sal. And also, he was nearly certain, no Truck. He remembered firelight and warmth, and lying on a bed not enclosed by tall wooden sides. He remembered hands that touched, a voice that crooned and cried. Also he remembered a bleak time of wailing and distress. The figures loomed round him, dim and massive as trees; there were other deeper voices, harder hands. One such pair of hands, surely, had placed him for the first time inside Truck. He remembered words, though they made little sense.
‘Lie there,
Similar Books
