I forgot the disclaimer in the previous chapter. Harold, Albert and Hercules belong to the genius partnership that is Alan Galton and Ray Simpson, to whom I give thanks for such wonderful creations.

Chapter 3

Harold had a hard time sleeping with all that was going through his head, he felt tonight had been a turning point in his life.

But what am I to do next? Where do I go from here? I want a better life but all I know is totting. I've no money to speak of, no qualifications, no talent of any description. What can I do?

After tossing and turning for what seemed like hours he eventually fell into a fitful sleep that gave him no rest. He dreamed the world was a huge canvas and he was being painted or drawn into bizarre situations by people who hated him.

He woke with a start then realised where he was and gave a huge sigh of relief.

"I don't want to go through that again." He got washed and shaved and put on his work clothes and went downstairs where he found Albert in the kitchen cooking sausages.

"Good morning Pater."

"What time did you manage to crawl back this morning?" Snarled the old man. "I tried waiting up but there was nothing on the telly so I went to bed. You don't wanna have too many late nights or it'll affect your work."

"Oh yes." Replied Harold. "I will find it so difficult to keep a hold of the reins. I've been doing the round so long now Hercules knows it better than I do, I could have a kip in the back of the cart while he walks around the streets." He put 2 sausages on a slice of bread and poured a cup of tea.

"And another thing." Went on Albert. "Suppose something happened to me while you are out and I don't know how to get hold of you?"

"Ring for an ambulance."

"And suppose I can't talk? Suppose I'm laying here for hours in excruciating pain waiting for you to come in?" Harold raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"I could never be that bloody lucky."

"Waddya mean by that?"

"I've been waiting years for you to kick the bucket but you carry on and carry on. I reckon you'll see me off."

"You miserable little bleeder, you'll be sorry when I am gone." But he was talking to the door Harold had slammed on his way out.

Harold hitched Hercules to the cart and left the yard. He was fond of the horse, probably the only living thing he had any affection for.

"You don't judge me do you boy? You don't care what I do or how I look or how much I make so long as you have your oats and the odd carrot. And you always listen to me without grumbling." At this the elderly horse turned his head as if he was agreeing with Harold.

It was a pleasant day, warm with a slight breeze. These were the kind of days Harold liked best. He could pretend he was a nob in his carriage, out at his leisure with not a care in the world.

Pull yourself together Harold, you are a totter and you always will be. It's about time you stopped all this ridiculous daydreaming and got back to the real world.

"Jan is the real world. And Pete and Stuart and Louise and the others. Perhaps it's not so bad after all. Home might be grotty but I can go out with my friends for a few hours and forget about it." That cheered him a little and he began to hum as they rode through the streets.

He had had worse days, much worse if he was truthful, but he still felt despondent as he and Hercules made their way back to Oildrum Lane. After rubbing the horse down and giving him his oats he went into the house, fast becoming his least favourite place to be.

"Is that you Harold?"

"Yes father, it is I, home from my weary toils." He flopped into an armchair with a sigh.

"Well you'll have to go out again, we need milk."

"Didn't the milkman deliver this morning?"

"He says we don't get no more milk until the bill is paid." Harold got to his feet and went into the kitchen.

"What do you mean no milk until the bill is paid? I give you money for the milk every week, what have you been doing with it?"

"I meant to pay the milkman Harold, honest I did."

"Then why didn't you?" Harold asked through gritted teeth. Albert cowered under his son's angry gaze.

"There was this horse you see -." Before he could utter another word Harold grabbed his shirt and pulled him up so they were eye-to-eye.

"You spent the milk money on a nag?" Unable to speak his father nodded, his eyes bulging with fear. "And just how long have you been doing this? The milkman doesn't stop delivering if we don't pay him for one week. How long?" Albert was gibbering now, he didn't often see Harold this angry.

"Don't hurt me Harold, please. I'm an old man." Harold ignored this.

"How long Dad?"

"Six weeks." He managed to gasp.

"Six weeks? You haven't paid the milkman for six weeks? No wonder he won't deliver any more." He let go of the old man who collapsed on the floor gasping for breath.

"I'm sorry Harold."

"Not as sorry as you are going to be." He went upstairs and changed out of his work clothes. When he came down his father was waiting for him.

"I've got your tea ready Son."

"I don't want any."

"It's liver and onions."

"I said I don't want any." He left the house and banged the door, Albert opened it to call after him.

"Harold, come back. Don't leave like this. I'm sorry Son, truly. I won't do it again." But Harold was gone.