2. THE GHOST OF GREYSTONE STADIUM
RUMOURS THAT the local athletics stadium was haunted by a phantom runner who raced round the track at midnight and into the early hours had been been buzzing round the big manufacturing town of Greystone for several years. The stories were not taken seriously until the stadium night watchman, old Ed Gudgeon, was rushed to hospital with chest pains after claiming to have seen the ghost one night in July.
Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track, was a pal of Ed, and as soon as he finished work at Charlie Chipping’s plumber’s shop next evening he hurried to the hospital with a bunch of purple grapes, a packet of fags and a bottle of stout for the old invalid.
“What happened, Ed?” growled Alf. “Was you drunk again?”
“No I was not drunk!” cried Ed. “I saw a blooming ghost. But that reminds me. Take the top off that bottle before the Matron comes.”
Alf bit the top off the stout bottle and Ed took a deep swig.
“Well tell us what happened,” demanded Alf.
Ed licked froth off his upper lip and said, “I was in the men’s dressing room, mopping the floor, and suddenly I heard the pattering of feet. I looks at my watch and it’s ten past twelve. So I crept up into the grandstand to get a good view and he was out there on the track in the moonlight, going along like a top class miler, and I shouted out, and he vanished just like a soap bubble bursting, and then my heart missed a couple of beats and I must have collapsed. The doctors say I’ve got a very tired old ticker. Give me one of those fags, there’s a good lad, and have one yourself.”
“No thanks,” said Alf. “I gave up when I was seven. Tell us what this fellow looked like.”
“It’s funny you should ask. He looked very familiar. And he was wearing an old Greystone Harriers vest.”
“How d’you mean, familiar?”
“His style of running was familiar. His head and shoulders were thrown back, almost as if he was falling over backwards, his nose was pointing at the sky, and he raised his knees very high.” Ed drew deeply on his fag and his brow furrowed with thought. “I know I’ve seen that style of running before, but I can’t place it. But it was somebody I’ve seen before. Perhaps it was in my own running days.”
“That would make him about a hundred and ten,” said Alf.
“It’s no joke, young man. I hardly dare go back to that stadium. That reminds me, I’ve got to find somebody to replace me as night watchman for a couple of weeks until I’m out of here. Could you put the word around? Somebody might be glad of the job.”
“Look no further,” said Alf. “I’ll do it.”
“I thought you were a plumber’s mate with Charlie Chipping.”
“I don’t need much sleep. But I do need plenty of track training. I’ll have the track all to myself every night.”
“Apart from the ghost,” put in Ed.
“There’s no such thing,” growled Alf, and got up to leave.
“Oh, another thing about that ghost,” said Ed. “He was wearing a mask.”
Alf felt a little shiver run down his spine. Then he scowled at his own stupidity and said so long to Ed.
THE MYSTERIOUS FLYING SUIT
He arrived at the stadium at ten past six that night and went straight to the men’s dressing room to change into his running togs. On a peg in a corner hung a long green and yellow Greystone University scarf. Alf wound it three times round his neck and leered at himself in the streaky, spotty full length mirror. “Lummy, look at me!” he jeered. “I’m a bloomin’ toff.” And then in the mirror he noticed a brown leather flying jacket hanging on a peg behind him. Funny he hadn’t noticed it before. He went over and examined it. On the next peg a pair of Royal Air Force blue trousers hung by the braces and under the bench below stood a pair of black, fleece-lined flying boots with white wool socks tucked inside. Blooming funny, thought Alf. Where is he, the flippin’ flier? He went out to the track to see. “Anybody there?” he yelled, but there was no answer.
Alf started his training with a five-mile loosener. The red shale track had been baked bone dry by the week long heatwave, so after half an hour’s rest and a raspberry jam butty he turned on the sprinklers he and Charlie had installed the previous summer and gave the thirsty ground a good drink. Then he went to the dressing room and ducked his head in a sink of cold water. He shook his shaggy head like a wet dog and looked about. Something was different. The flying jacket, trousers and boots had gone. He stood on one spot for a full minute thinking about this, then gave up.
The next night was blustery and chilly and the rusty corrugated iron sheets of which the stadium walls were mainly composed were rattling and clanging as Alf went on night duty. In the dressing room he looked for the flying uniform, but it was not there. He changed into his kit and went out on to the track. To warm up he did a two mile jog - eight laps of the track. Then he brewed up and ate his jam and marge butties. He stretched out on a bench in the dressing room and had half an hour’s kip, then sprang up, nicely refreshed, and ran out to the track.
Night was falling and the moon had risen like a silver rugby ball kicked high into the sky. “I’ll do a steady, disciplined mile with a sprint finish in the last 50 yards.” he told himself. He set off, but after fewer than a hundred yards he slowed down and glanced over his shoulder. He thought he had heard footsteps pattering behind him, but nobody was there. He set off again and in an instant the following footsteps resumed. He stopped and turned round and scanned the stadium in all directions.
“I know you’re there so why don’t you show your face?” he called. And a split second later a voice came from the grandstand: ”So why don’t you show your face?” Alf scowled. It was his own blooming voice. It was just an echo from the grandstand floating out over the empty stadium. The mysterious footsteps had been an echo, too.
“Now I’ve started imagining things,” he grumbled. “ I’m as bad as old Ed Gudgeon.”
He walked back to the start line and set off once more and this time he ignored the extra set of footsteps. It was a satisfying run. He maintained a good even pace and had plenty to spare for the final run in, which was a burst of speed worthy of a decent club sprinter and left him doubled up on the track, knackered but happy. As he lay there panting, somebody in the grandstand started a loud slow hand clap. Alf jumped to his feet and stared. The clapping came again. He moved towards the sound. The clapping stopped. He climbed into the deep gloom of the grandstand. The clapping came again. It seemed to be coming from the back row. Alf climbed on fearlessly. Then he saw it and heard it in the same instant. A loose corrugated sheet was flapping against one of the wooden supports and making a clapping sound. “Blimey, fooled again!” muttered Alf. “But I can see where all those rumours came from about the place being haunted.”
Next night the flying uniform was hanging in the dressing room once more. Alf thought of searching the pockets but decided it would look too much like thieving. He did a few odd jobs before starting his training on the track. He mopped the dressing room, cleaned the spots and streaks off the mirror, changed the washer on a leaking tap and swept the grandstand floor and seating with a stuff brush. He had not slept much the previous night, so he decided on a cat nap in the dressing room before going out for a run, but he overslept and it was close to midnight when he awoke. He got into his togs and went out to the track.
THE FLYING PRINCE
It was a lovely soft early summer night, with a bright moon and a great rash of stars in the sky. Alf set off on a two-mile loosener and soon heard another set of footsteps pattering behind. This time he was not fooled by the echo and kept going. And then suddenly a figure loomed up on his right shoulder and started running along beside him. Alf glanced to his right and almost fell down. It was a man with a white mask held in place by a pair of flying goggles. He was in full running gear, including a gold Greystone Harriers vest.
“Evening,” said the stranger. “Can I give you a race?”
“Who the heck are you?”
“The name’s Prince. Eric Prince. And who are you?”
“Tupper. Alf Tupper. What the heck are you doing here?”
“I often drop in when nobody’s about. Can I give you a race?”
“Right you are,” said Alf.
They went back to the starting line and decided on the mile - four laps of the track. Off they went, and Alf hung behind so that he could get a good look at the chap. The man had an odd style of running, almost as though he was trying to climb an invisible ladder up to the sky. His shoulders were flung right back, his nose strained upwards towards the sky, his knees and elbows were raised comically high. But it was effective. He went at a cracking pace and Alf, who was a world class runner himself, had a job to stay in touch. He won’t keep this up, thought Alf, and he was right. At the start of the last lap Alf forged ahead and on the last bend he eased down so that the poor bloke would not be embarrassed. But twenty yards from home the man came streaking past Alf like a train and won the race by a good five yards. He stood with his hands on his hips, completely composed, with no puffing or panting, and said, “Thanks, Alf. Good race.”
The race had taken a lot out of Alf. “Blimey,” he growled, breathing heavily, “you can’t half run. I ‘ll have to sit down.”
They sat on the round-topped concrete wall circling the field.
“How often do you come here for a run?” asked Alf.
“As often as I can. I usually wait until the night watchman’s asleep.”
“Do you never run in the daytime?”
“Not these days.”
“Why not?
Eric Prince touched his face. It was not a mask he wore, but a big white handkerchief held in place by goggles. “I’m rather horribly disfigured,” he said. “Got burnt in an accident. I’d scare the population.”
“I don’t see why that should stop you.”
“Oh, a chap gets embarrassed.”
“Folks round here think you’re a ghost,” said Alf.
“Oh, that’s priceless,” Prince said, with a laugh.
Alf had a sudden memory. He stared at the man with his mouth open and then burst out,”Blimey, I know who you are! You’re the Flying Prince! I remember you!”
“That’s very good of you,” said Prince.
“Lummy, I used to watch you when I was a nipper. In this very stadium. I used to hang over this wall and watch you licking all comers. Must have been ten years ago. You were the one who started me running. Everybody said you’d be the first four-minute miler. Then you disappeared. What happened?”
“I joined the Royal Air Force when I was eighteen. There was a war on. That’s where this happened.” And he touched the white handkerchief.
“And you never ran again?”
“Not in public. Are you fit for another mile, Alf?”
“I’m game,” said Alf. “Only this time I won’t fall for your blooming tricks.”
They lined up again. Alf was a clever tactician. This time he started fast, intending to sap the sprint finish out of Prince’s legs. He kept up a blistering pace for two laps, but Prince stayed beside him. “Come on,” urged the man in the mask. “Can’t you go any faster?” Alf did not mind. It was not a taunt but an encouragement.
Alf put on a spurt, but Prince stayed annoyingly at his shoulder. “Come on, Alf,” he said. “You can do better than that.”
“Who d’you think I am, a flippin’ greyhound?” puffed Alf.
On the last bend Prince slipped in front and moved into the inside lane. Alf’s legs were turning to rubber and his lungs were exploding but he reached deep into his big heart and somehow stayed within touching distance.
“That’s better!” Prince called over his shoulder. “Now you’re running!”
Alf strove for a sprint finish but he had to pay for the over ambitious pace he had set and the Flying Prince finished well in front. He stood with hands on hips as Alf lay groaning and panting on the red shale.
“Thanks, Alf. Good race. You did about four-five.”
“You mean four minutes five seconds?” said Alf.
“That’s right. Or maybe four-four.”
“Get away with you,” said Alf. “My best time ever was four minutes ten seconds.”
“Perhaps you were spurred on tonight by decent competition. It does help, you know.”
Alf was about to say he had run with the best competition in the land, but he held his tongue. The truth was he had never run with anybody as good as the Flying Prince.
THE GREAT RACE
They went back to the dressing room to get changed. Alf stood in front of the mirror, trying to make sense of his shaggy hair with a nearly toothless comb. Then he glimpsed Prince in the mirror and his jaw dropped. Prince had removed his goggles and the handkerchief had fallen from his face. But there was no face. There was nothing at all - no lips, no nose, no eyes. Just a hollow black emptiness like the crater of a volcano. Alf gulped and looked away. When he turned round Prince had put the handkerchief back in place.
“Same time tomorrow?” said Prince.
“Terrific,” said Alf. “Listen, mate, why do you do all this running if you don’t intend doing it in public?”
“Simple. I want to run the mile in under four minutes.”
“Eh?”
“It was my childhood dream. I dedicated all my life to it. Had to make a lot of sacrifices. When the war came along I was just on the verge of bringing it off.” He touched the white handkerchief. “But why should a little thing like this stop me? Why should Adolf Hitler beat me? You and I both know these things, Alf. A chap has to battle on. Life comes along and tries to floor you with its left hooks and upper cuts but you have to duck and weave and cover your chin and come out fighting. I’m going to break that record. I haven’t done it so far because I’ve been trying on my own all these years with nobody to help me. But now I have you and you’re a good ‘un. Let’s have a shot tomorrow night. Are you on, Alf?”
“Blimey, pal, not ‘alf,” said Alf.
Next night Alf walked to the stadium eating fish and chips out of a newspaper. He entered the dressing room at seven and the flying suit was absent. Lack of sleep was catching up with him and he stretched out and instantly fell into a deep slumber and did not wake until well after midnight. Eric Prince was standing over him.
“How are you, Alf?”
“Nicely rested, pal.”
“Marvellous. Let’s go and break records, lad.”
“I’m game.”
Outside on the track a mild breeze rippled their running vests - Prince’s gold one and Alf’s red one dotted with moth holes. Flimsy grey and yellow clouds raced each other across the moon.
“Right, Alf, let’s get our plan straight,” said Prince.
“Plan? What plan?”
“The plan for this run.”
“I aint interested in plans,” growled Alf. “It’s a race, not a bloomin’ weddin’.”
“But it’s not a simple race. It’s an attempt to run the mile in under four minutes.”
“I’ve already got a plan and that’s to win,” Alf said doggedly.
”Are you serious?”
“Listen, pal, I always run to win and I aint changing my mind for anybody.”
“Has anybody ever told you you’re a damnably awkward blighter, Tupper?”
“Me?” said Alf with a choirboy expression. ”I’m an angel in disguise.”
“None of your damned cheek,” Prince said in the posh, clipped voice of a superior officer. The goggles staring at Alf flashed with anger in the moonlight. “I’m ordering you to co-operate in a proper race plan.”
“It’s always the same with you bloomin’ toffs,” growled Alf. “Always wanting to boss us about. Well I aint having any of it, see? I’m runnin’ my race and you’re runnin’ yours and you can like it or lump it.”
“Very well,” Prince said icily. “You’ve asked for it.”
“Ta very much,” growled Alf. “Now how are we going to time this race?”
Prince held up a silver stopwatch. “I’ll click it when we start and when I cross the finishing line.”
“What if I finish first?” said Alf. Prince seemed taken aback for a moment, then he said, “If that happens I’ll click it when I see you cross. But that not very likely.”
“Cocky blighter, aint you?” growled Alf.
“Ready?” said Prince.
“Ready,” said Alf.
A dog barked in a distant street. Prince dug a toe groove in the shale and got down like a sprinter. Alf followed suit.
“Ready ... set ... go!” cried Prince, and they were off.
Prince bolted away like a hare and Alf tucked in behind. “I’ll let him tow me along like a toy horse on a string,” he thought. But after half a lap Prince suddenly veered to the right and Alf’s momentum carried him into the lead, where he did not want to be, and now Prince tucked in behind.
“Bloomin’ cheek,” growled Alf. “But If I slow down now he’ll have to come past.” He gave the brakes a touch and Prince swung out and shot past with goggles blazing furiously in the moonlight. Alf tried to tuck in again but Prince had opened a wide and widening gap and Alf stared with dismay at his running spikes dancing like fireflies in the distance.
“I made a bloomer,” Alf said to himself, and set off in pursuit. At the start of the last lap Prince was fifty yards ahead but Alf was steadily gaining and with a tremendous effort he forced himself alongside the man in the mask, then surged past him, and with a hundred yards to go he was already throwing his arms up in victory. Then he heard a whooshing sound like a cannonball whizzing past his ear and Prince hurled himself in front in a blur of motion and won by ten yards.
Alf lay spreadeagled, tongue lolling, chest heaving, gazing up at the stars. His fingers touched something round, smooth and cold. It was Prince’s stopwatch. He held it up to the light of the moon. It said 3.59.77.
Alf sprang to his feet to congratulate Prince, but the man in the mask was nowhere in sight. Alf walked round the track calling his name but there was no reply. He went to look for him in the dressing room but he was not there and the flying clothes had gone. But a message was scrawled on the mirror in whitewash:
3.59. ! ! !
THANKS ALF.
NOW I CAN REST IN PEACE.
YOUR TIME MUST HAVE BEEN ABOUT 4.4.
I OWE YOU A BIG FAVOUR.
IT WON’T BE LONG IN COMING.
PAL ERIC.
THE OLYMPIC TRIAL
The next night Alf went to see how old Ed Gudgeon was getting on in hospital and took him a pork pie, a packet of fags and a bottle of stout.
“How are you doing with your training?” asked the old man.
“Grand.”
“You’ve seen no sign of that ghost yet?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alf. “We have a run together every night. Last night he broke the world record for the mile.”
“It’s all very well joking about it but if you really did see him you’d get the shock of your life.”
“I suppose you’re right, Ed, as usual,” Alf growled.
Alf hitchhiked to London starting at midnight on Friday. Hitchhiking was not only economical but educational. You got to talk to lots of different people and listen to their views about life. A nice respectable Ford car came along and picked him up. The driver was a wiry little chap with a bulging forehead, thick spectacles and a clergyman’s dog collar.
“And what do you do for a living, son?” he asked in a plummy voice, as they trundled along.
“I’m a plumber and welder.”
“I bet you couldn’t guess what I do,” said the driver.
“Well, you’re a vicar, aint you?” said Alf.
“Never go by appearances, my son. I am a cat burglar.“
“Cor, that must be excitin’,” Alf said politely.
“And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m looking for a young apprentice. Somebody with experience of welding would go right to the front of the queue of applicants. He should also be able to move run fast.”
“Cor, that’s a pity,” said Alf. “I’ve got bandy legs and I can’t even raise a trot. They used to call me Tortoise at school.”
In the countryside fifty miles outside London he was picked up by a farmer in a trailer loaded with horse and cow manure and helped to spread it over a five acre field as the day began to dawn. Then a coal man dropped him off almost at the gates of the Crystal Palace stadium after Alf had helped to deliver a few dozen bags of coal on the way. By this time Alf was a bit pongy and grimy and the stadium gatekeeper was reluctant to let him in until he showed his letter of invitation. Alf started to open the dressing room door but stopped at the sound of voices inside. He pricked up his ears. Somebody had just mentioned his name.
“I don’t know what the Olympic selectors are dreaming of, inviting that guttersnipe Tupper to take part in this race,” said a cut-glass voice. “He’d be a disgrace to the whole British team.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” drawled a second upper class voice. “He drops his aitches and his final g’s and he’s always using words like “blimey” and “blooming” and “aint” and calling people “mate.” And he has moth holes in his running vest and wears odd shoes - one black and one white.” “Have you ever run against him? “Just a couple of times.” “Did you beat him?” “No, I had a very bad cold both times and he just managed to pip me. How about you?” “He pipped me a couple of times but only because I had nasty cramps.” “He’s not all that good, really.” “He’s hopeless. But he has all the luck in the world. “ “You can’t rely on luck in the Olympic Games. I think it’s our duty to the nation keep him out of the team.” “I couldn’t agree more. What do you suggest?” “Well, you could clip his heels, and then if that doesn’t work I could elbow him off the track.” “Sounds a good plan to me.” “Let’s shake on it.” “The blighter should be here soon.” “I bet he hasn’t washed his face.” And then they both laughed heartily. Alf pushed open the door and his coal black face split into a grin at the sight of Gervase Monty and Algy Ditchwood, two young men wearing university blazers and striped silk ties. “Hallo, mates,” he growled. “Blimey, the selectors must be scrapin’ the barrel if they’ve picked two slow coaches like you. “ “Is there a strange smell in here?” said Monte, wrinkling his nose. “We’d better move before it gasses us,” said Ditchwood, and they retreated to the far end of the room. When Alf glanced in the mirror he gave even himself a shock. He dipped his head in the sink, shook it vigorously and gave everybody nearby a shower, changed into his running kit, stretched out on the bench to catch up with some sleep and was soon snoring. Half an hour later an official tapped him on the shoulder and told him it was race time. Alf rubbed his eyes, got to his feet, started towards the door, then stopped and stared in amazement. Hanging on a clothes peg directly opposite was a brown leather flying jacket and next to it a pair of Royal Air Force blue trousers. THE PRINCE RETURNS It was an afternoon of shimmering heat and the faces in the vast crowd seemed to float slowly up and down and sideways. Alf shaded his eyes and peered among the runners strolling towards the start line but could not make out Eric Prince. Then at last he spotted him, sitting on the grass on the inside of the track with his knees drawn up and his chin resting on his hands. His goggles flashed like ships signalling in the night as he gazed towards the crowded grandstand. Alf rushed up to him and stuck out his right hand. Prince hesitated a moment, then shook hands. The fingers were so thin and bony that Alf felt as though he were holding a bundle of broken pencils. “How did you get here?” asked Alf. “I flew,” said Prince, looking up at the sky. “Are you runnin’ this race with us?” “Not half.” “Bloomin’ brilliant. That’s one gold medal for Britain in the bag.” “Yes, it would be lovely to think so. And are you feeling confident, Alf?” “Never fitter, thanks to you, mate. But I’ve got a couple of little problems.” And he described how Monte and Ditchforth were planning to nobble him. “That’s confoundedly un-British!” cried Prince, jumping to his feet. “Point those blighters out to me.” Alf pointed to the cheats. “Just leave ‘em to me,” said Prince. “Now don’t go doing anything daft,” warned Alf. “Come on, Alf. We’d better go and line up.” Alf was delighted that nobody stared at Prince as they walked to the line. “Look, Eric, there was no need to be so shy. They aint takin’ a blind bit of notice of you.” There were five other runners besides Monte, Ditchforth, Prince and Alf. They were Percy Pritchard, the thirty-year-old Welsh preacher, who trained by running up and down Mount Snowdon every day, Horace Oats, the Highland Games champion, Neil Thompson, the new young star from St Andrews University, Zemba the Zulu, the Olympic champion, and Gus Kleinhammer, the American docker and world record holder. The last two were included to spice up the competition. As they were getting in line, Prince muttered to Alf, “Don’t let Monte or Ditchforth get behind you in the first lap. Hang back.” “Can I trust him?” thought Alf. “Yes, of course I can trust him.” The pistol cracked and they were away. Zemba went like an express train, with Kleinhammer and Thompson coupled to him like carriages. Pritchard and Oats were in close attendance. Alf and Prince lagged well in the rear, so that Monte and Ditchforth could not come up behind and do their nobbling. “What are you waiting for, Tupper?” called Monte, looking over his shoulder at Alf. “Forgotten how to run?” “Bother this!” yelled Ditchforth. “We’re losing the race. Come on, let’s go!” Monte and Ditchforth surged away. Prince followed like a bullet and clipped Monte’s heels and sent him cartwheeling off the track and out of the race. Ditchforth glanced behind at his pal with a gape of surprise and was looking the wrong way when Prince gave him a vicious elbow in the ribs which sent him sprawling on to the grass and ended his contest. “All clear, Alf!” cried Prince, as Alf drew level. “Now let’s catch up with the race. Chocks away!” Alf grinned, released the brakes and started to scorch the track. The leaders were half a lap in front. “Can we catch them?” Alf asked himself. “Of course we can. We sleepwalked the first quarter. I’ve got plenty left.” He latched on to Prince like a paper clip on a magnet. A hundred yards from home, as the early leaders wilted in the baking heat, Prince and Alf streaked in front and Prince was the winner by half a yard. Alf lay on the track, gasping for air. An official ran up and asked if he was OK, then said, “Well done, lad. You were a worthy winner.” “Winner? said Alf. “I came second.” Percy Pritchard came panting up and dragged Alf to his feet. “The most amazing mile I ever saw, boyo,” he said. “You gave us all a lap start and then won by fifty yards.” “What about Eric Prince?” Alf demanded. “Eric Prince? The Flying Prince? What about him?” “He was the blooming winner. He beat me by half a yard.” “I think you’ve got a touch of the sun, boyo,” said Pritchard. “The Flying Prince was killed in the Battle of Britain. His Spitfire was shot down over Kent.” “That aint true!” cried Alf. “I should know. I was in the RAF with him. I was one of the coffin bearers at his funeral. Now come on up and collect that gold cup.” Alf hitchhiked home that night with the William Murgatroyd Gold Cup under his arm, wrapped in old newspapers obtained from a chip shop. As the moon sailed high a nice respectable Ford car came along and picked him up. The driver was the cat burglar wearing a clergyman’s dog collar. “Just look in that bag at your feet, my son,” said the burglar, as the car trundled along. Alf fumbled in the bag and drew out a big shining silver cup. “Would a plumber or welder ever get his hands on a cup like that?” asked the burglar. “Lummy, that’s a beauty,” said Alf. ”Pity it aint a gold one.”
Alf Tupper, the Tough of the Track, was a pal of Ed, and as soon as he finished work at Charlie Chipping’s plumber’s shop next evening he hurried to the hospital with a bunch of purple grapes, a packet of fags and a bottle of stout for the old invalid.
“What happened, Ed?” growled Alf. “Was you drunk again?”
“No I was not drunk!” cried Ed. “I saw a blooming ghost. But that reminds me. Take the top off that bottle before the Matron comes.”
Alf bit the top off the stout bottle and Ed took a deep swig.
“Well tell us what happened,” demanded Alf.
Ed licked froth off his upper lip and said, “I was in the men’s dressing room, mopping the floor, and suddenly I heard the pattering of feet. I looks at my watch and it’s ten past twelve. So I crept up into the grandstand to get a good view and he was out there on the track in the moonlight, going along like a top class miler, and I shouted out, and he vanished just like a soap bubble bursting, and then my heart missed a couple of beats and I must have collapsed. The doctors say I’ve got a very tired old ticker. Give me one of those fags, there’s a good lad, and have one yourself.”
“No thanks,” said Alf. “I gave up when I was seven. Tell us what this fellow looked like.”
“It’s funny you should ask. He looked very familiar. And he was wearing an old Greystone Harriers vest.”
“How d’you mean, familiar?”
“His style of running was familiar. His head and shoulders were thrown back, almost as if he was falling over backwards, his nose was pointing at the sky, and he raised his knees very high.” Ed drew deeply on his fag and his brow furrowed with thought. “I know I’ve seen that style of running before, but I can’t place it. But it was somebody I’ve seen before. Perhaps it was in my own running days.”
“That would make him about a hundred and ten,” said Alf.
“It’s no joke, young man. I hardly dare go back to that stadium. That reminds me, I’ve got to find somebody to replace me as night watchman for a couple of weeks until I’m out of here. Could you put the word around? Somebody might be glad of the job.”
“Look no further,” said Alf. “I’ll do it.”
“I thought you were a plumber’s mate with Charlie Chipping.”
“I don’t need much sleep. But I do need plenty of track training. I’ll have the track all to myself every night.”
“Apart from the ghost,” put in Ed.
“There’s no such thing,” growled Alf, and got up to leave.
“Oh, another thing about that ghost,” said Ed. “He was wearing a mask.”
Alf felt a little shiver run down his spine. Then he scowled at his own stupidity and said so long to Ed.
THE MYSTERIOUS FLYING SUIT
He arrived at the stadium at ten past six that night and went straight to the men’s dressing room to change into his running togs. On a peg in a corner hung a long green and yellow Greystone University scarf. Alf wound it three times round his neck and leered at himself in the streaky, spotty full length mirror. “Lummy, look at me!” he jeered. “I’m a bloomin’ toff.” And then in the mirror he noticed a brown leather flying jacket hanging on a peg behind him. Funny he hadn’t noticed it before. He went over and examined it. On the next peg a pair of Royal Air Force blue trousers hung by the braces and under the bench below stood a pair of black, fleece-lined flying boots with white wool socks tucked inside. Blooming funny, thought Alf. Where is he, the flippin’ flier? He went out to the track to see. “Anybody there?” he yelled, but there was no answer.
Alf started his training with a five-mile loosener. The red shale track had been baked bone dry by the week long heatwave, so after half an hour’s rest and a raspberry jam butty he turned on the sprinklers he and Charlie had installed the previous summer and gave the thirsty ground a good drink. Then he went to the dressing room and ducked his head in a sink of cold water. He shook his shaggy head like a wet dog and looked about. Something was different. The flying jacket, trousers and boots had gone. He stood on one spot for a full minute thinking about this, then gave up.
The next night was blustery and chilly and the rusty corrugated iron sheets of which the stadium walls were mainly composed were rattling and clanging as Alf went on night duty. In the dressing room he looked for the flying uniform, but it was not there. He changed into his kit and went out on to the track. To warm up he did a two mile jog - eight laps of the track. Then he brewed up and ate his jam and marge butties. He stretched out on a bench in the dressing room and had half an hour’s kip, then sprang up, nicely refreshed, and ran out to the track.
Night was falling and the moon had risen like a silver rugby ball kicked high into the sky. “I’ll do a steady, disciplined mile with a sprint finish in the last 50 yards.” he told himself. He set off, but after fewer than a hundred yards he slowed down and glanced over his shoulder. He thought he had heard footsteps pattering behind him, but nobody was there. He set off again and in an instant the following footsteps resumed. He stopped and turned round and scanned the stadium in all directions.
“I know you’re there so why don’t you show your face?” he called. And a split second later a voice came from the grandstand: ”So why don’t you show your face?” Alf scowled. It was his own blooming voice. It was just an echo from the grandstand floating out over the empty stadium. The mysterious footsteps had been an echo, too.
“Now I’ve started imagining things,” he grumbled. “ I’m as bad as old Ed Gudgeon.”
He walked back to the start line and set off once more and this time he ignored the extra set of footsteps. It was a satisfying run. He maintained a good even pace and had plenty to spare for the final run in, which was a burst of speed worthy of a decent club sprinter and left him doubled up on the track, knackered but happy. As he lay there panting, somebody in the grandstand started a loud slow hand clap. Alf jumped to his feet and stared. The clapping came again. He moved towards the sound. The clapping stopped. He climbed into the deep gloom of the grandstand. The clapping came again. It seemed to be coming from the back row. Alf climbed on fearlessly. Then he saw it and heard it in the same instant. A loose corrugated sheet was flapping against one of the wooden supports and making a clapping sound. “Blimey, fooled again!” muttered Alf. “But I can see where all those rumours came from about the place being haunted.”
Next night the flying uniform was hanging in the dressing room once more. Alf thought of searching the pockets but decided it would look too much like thieving. He did a few odd jobs before starting his training on the track. He mopped the dressing room, cleaned the spots and streaks off the mirror, changed the washer on a leaking tap and swept the grandstand floor and seating with a stuff brush. He had not slept much the previous night, so he decided on a cat nap in the dressing room before going out for a run, but he overslept and it was close to midnight when he awoke. He got into his togs and went out to the track.
THE FLYING PRINCE
It was a lovely soft early summer night, with a bright moon and a great rash of stars in the sky. Alf set off on a two-mile loosener and soon heard another set of footsteps pattering behind. This time he was not fooled by the echo and kept going. And then suddenly a figure loomed up on his right shoulder and started running along beside him. Alf glanced to his right and almost fell down. It was a man with a white mask held in place by a pair of flying goggles. He was in full running gear, including a gold Greystone Harriers vest.
“Evening,” said the stranger. “Can I give you a race?”
“Who the heck are you?”
“The name’s Prince. Eric Prince. And who are you?”
“Tupper. Alf Tupper. What the heck are you doing here?”
“I often drop in when nobody’s about. Can I give you a race?”
“Right you are,” said Alf.
They went back to the starting line and decided on the mile - four laps of the track. Off they went, and Alf hung behind so that he could get a good look at the chap. The man had an odd style of running, almost as though he was trying to climb an invisible ladder up to the sky. His shoulders were flung right back, his nose strained upwards towards the sky, his knees and elbows were raised comically high. But it was effective. He went at a cracking pace and Alf, who was a world class runner himself, had a job to stay in touch. He won’t keep this up, thought Alf, and he was right. At the start of the last lap Alf forged ahead and on the last bend he eased down so that the poor bloke would not be embarrassed. But twenty yards from home the man came streaking past Alf like a train and won the race by a good five yards. He stood with his hands on his hips, completely composed, with no puffing or panting, and said, “Thanks, Alf. Good race.”
The race had taken a lot out of Alf. “Blimey,” he growled, breathing heavily, “you can’t half run. I ‘ll have to sit down.”
They sat on the round-topped concrete wall circling the field.
“How often do you come here for a run?” asked Alf.
“As often as I can. I usually wait until the night watchman’s asleep.”
“Do you never run in the daytime?”
“Not these days.”
“Why not?
Eric Prince touched his face. It was not a mask he wore, but a big white handkerchief held in place by goggles. “I’m rather horribly disfigured,” he said. “Got burnt in an accident. I’d scare the population.”
“I don’t see why that should stop you.”
“Oh, a chap gets embarrassed.”
“Folks round here think you’re a ghost,” said Alf.
“Oh, that’s priceless,” Prince said, with a laugh.
Alf had a sudden memory. He stared at the man with his mouth open and then burst out,”Blimey, I know who you are! You’re the Flying Prince! I remember you!”
“That’s very good of you,” said Prince.
“Lummy, I used to watch you when I was a nipper. In this very stadium. I used to hang over this wall and watch you licking all comers. Must have been ten years ago. You were the one who started me running. Everybody said you’d be the first four-minute miler. Then you disappeared. What happened?”
“I joined the Royal Air Force when I was eighteen. There was a war on. That’s where this happened.” And he touched the white handkerchief.
“And you never ran again?”
“Not in public. Are you fit for another mile, Alf?”
“I’m game,” said Alf. “Only this time I won’t fall for your blooming tricks.”
They lined up again. Alf was a clever tactician. This time he started fast, intending to sap the sprint finish out of Prince’s legs. He kept up a blistering pace for two laps, but Prince stayed beside him. “Come on,” urged the man in the mask. “Can’t you go any faster?” Alf did not mind. It was not a taunt but an encouragement.
Alf put on a spurt, but Prince stayed annoyingly at his shoulder. “Come on, Alf,” he said. “You can do better than that.”
“Who d’you think I am, a flippin’ greyhound?” puffed Alf.
On the last bend Prince slipped in front and moved into the inside lane. Alf’s legs were turning to rubber and his lungs were exploding but he reached deep into his big heart and somehow stayed within touching distance.
“That’s better!” Prince called over his shoulder. “Now you’re running!”
Alf strove for a sprint finish but he had to pay for the over ambitious pace he had set and the Flying Prince finished well in front. He stood with hands on hips as Alf lay groaning and panting on the red shale.
“Thanks, Alf. Good race. You did about four-five.”
“You mean four minutes five seconds?” said Alf.
“That’s right. Or maybe four-four.”
“Get away with you,” said Alf. “My best time ever was four minutes ten seconds.”
“Perhaps you were spurred on tonight by decent competition. It does help, you know.”
Alf was about to say he had run with the best competition in the land, but he held his tongue. The truth was he had never run with anybody as good as the Flying Prince.
THE GREAT RACE
They went back to the dressing room to get changed. Alf stood in front of the mirror, trying to make sense of his shaggy hair with a nearly toothless comb. Then he glimpsed Prince in the mirror and his jaw dropped. Prince had removed his goggles and the handkerchief had fallen from his face. But there was no face. There was nothing at all - no lips, no nose, no eyes. Just a hollow black emptiness like the crater of a volcano. Alf gulped and looked away. When he turned round Prince had put the handkerchief back in place.
“Same time tomorrow?” said Prince.
“Terrific,” said Alf. “Listen, mate, why do you do all this running if you don’t intend doing it in public?”
“Simple. I want to run the mile in under four minutes.”
“Eh?”
“It was my childhood dream. I dedicated all my life to it. Had to make a lot of sacrifices. When the war came along I was just on the verge of bringing it off.” He touched the white handkerchief. “But why should a little thing like this stop me? Why should Adolf Hitler beat me? You and I both know these things, Alf. A chap has to battle on. Life comes along and tries to floor you with its left hooks and upper cuts but you have to duck and weave and cover your chin and come out fighting. I’m going to break that record. I haven’t done it so far because I’ve been trying on my own all these years with nobody to help me. But now I have you and you’re a good ‘un. Let’s have a shot tomorrow night. Are you on, Alf?”
“Blimey, pal, not ‘alf,” said Alf.
Next night Alf walked to the stadium eating fish and chips out of a newspaper. He entered the dressing room at seven and the flying suit was absent. Lack of sleep was catching up with him and he stretched out and instantly fell into a deep slumber and did not wake until well after midnight. Eric Prince was standing over him.
“How are you, Alf?”
“Nicely rested, pal.”
“Marvellous. Let’s go and break records, lad.”
“I’m game.”
Outside on the track a mild breeze rippled their running vests - Prince’s gold one and Alf’s red one dotted with moth holes. Flimsy grey and yellow clouds raced each other across the moon.
“Right, Alf, let’s get our plan straight,” said Prince.
“Plan? What plan?”
“The plan for this run.”
“I aint interested in plans,” growled Alf. “It’s a race, not a bloomin’ weddin’.”
“But it’s not a simple race. It’s an attempt to run the mile in under four minutes.”
“I’ve already got a plan and that’s to win,” Alf said doggedly.
”Are you serious?”
“Listen, pal, I always run to win and I aint changing my mind for anybody.”
“Has anybody ever told you you’re a damnably awkward blighter, Tupper?”
“Me?” said Alf with a choirboy expression. ”I’m an angel in disguise.”
“None of your damned cheek,” Prince said in the posh, clipped voice of a superior officer. The goggles staring at Alf flashed with anger in the moonlight. “I’m ordering you to co-operate in a proper race plan.”
“It’s always the same with you bloomin’ toffs,” growled Alf. “Always wanting to boss us about. Well I aint having any of it, see? I’m runnin’ my race and you’re runnin’ yours and you can like it or lump it.”
“Very well,” Prince said icily. “You’ve asked for it.”
“Ta very much,” growled Alf. “Now how are we going to time this race?”
Prince held up a silver stopwatch. “I’ll click it when we start and when I cross the finishing line.”
“What if I finish first?” said Alf. Prince seemed taken aback for a moment, then he said, “If that happens I’ll click it when I see you cross. But that not very likely.”
“Cocky blighter, aint you?” growled Alf.
“Ready?” said Prince.
“Ready,” said Alf.
A dog barked in a distant street. Prince dug a toe groove in the shale and got down like a sprinter. Alf followed suit.
“Ready ... set ... go!” cried Prince, and they were off.
Prince bolted away like a hare and Alf tucked in behind. “I’ll let him tow me along like a toy horse on a string,” he thought. But after half a lap Prince suddenly veered to the right and Alf’s momentum carried him into the lead, where he did not want to be, and now Prince tucked in behind.
“Bloomin’ cheek,” growled Alf. “But If I slow down now he’ll have to come past.” He gave the brakes a touch and Prince swung out and shot past with goggles blazing furiously in the moonlight. Alf tried to tuck in again but Prince had opened a wide and widening gap and Alf stared with dismay at his running spikes dancing like fireflies in the distance.
“I made a bloomer,” Alf said to himself, and set off in pursuit. At the start of the last lap Prince was fifty yards ahead but Alf was steadily gaining and with a tremendous effort he forced himself alongside the man in the mask, then surged past him, and with a hundred yards to go he was already throwing his arms up in victory. Then he heard a whooshing sound like a cannonball whizzing past his ear and Prince hurled himself in front in a blur of motion and won by ten yards.
Alf lay spreadeagled, tongue lolling, chest heaving, gazing up at the stars. His fingers touched something round, smooth and cold. It was Prince’s stopwatch. He held it up to the light of the moon. It said 3.59.77.
Alf sprang to his feet to congratulate Prince, but the man in the mask was nowhere in sight. Alf walked round the track calling his name but there was no reply. He went to look for him in the dressing room but he was not there and the flying clothes had gone. But a message was scrawled on the mirror in whitewash:
3.59. ! ! !
THANKS ALF.
NOW I CAN REST IN PEACE.
YOUR TIME MUST HAVE BEEN ABOUT 4.4.
I OWE YOU A BIG FAVOUR.
IT WON’T BE LONG IN COMING.
PAL ERIC.
THE OLYMPIC TRIAL
The next night Alf went to see how old Ed Gudgeon was getting on in hospital and took him a pork pie, a packet of fags and a bottle of stout.
“How are you doing with your training?” asked the old man.
“Grand.”
“You’ve seen no sign of that ghost yet?”
“Oh, yes,” said Alf. “We have a run together every night. Last night he broke the world record for the mile.”
“It’s all very well joking about it but if you really did see him you’d get the shock of your life.”
“I suppose you’re right, Ed, as usual,” Alf growled.
Alf hitchhiked to London starting at midnight on Friday. Hitchhiking was not only economical but educational. You got to talk to lots of different people and listen to their views about life. A nice respectable Ford car came along and picked him up. The driver was a wiry little chap with a bulging forehead, thick spectacles and a clergyman’s dog collar.
“And what do you do for a living, son?” he asked in a plummy voice, as they trundled along.
“I’m a plumber and welder.”
“I bet you couldn’t guess what I do,” said the driver.
“Well, you’re a vicar, aint you?” said Alf.
“Never go by appearances, my son. I am a cat burglar.“
“Cor, that must be excitin’,” Alf said politely.
“And I’ll tell you another thing. I’m looking for a young apprentice. Somebody with experience of welding would go right to the front of the queue of applicants. He should also be able to move run fast.”
“Cor, that’s a pity,” said Alf. “I’ve got bandy legs and I can’t even raise a trot. They used to call me Tortoise at school.”
In the countryside fifty miles outside London he was picked up by a farmer in a trailer loaded with horse and cow manure and helped to spread it over a five acre field as the day began to dawn. Then a coal man dropped him off almost at the gates of the Crystal Palace stadium after Alf had helped to deliver a few dozen bags of coal on the way. By this time Alf was a bit pongy and grimy and the stadium gatekeeper was reluctant to let him in until he showed his letter of invitation. Alf started to open the dressing room door but stopped at the sound of voices inside. He pricked up his ears. Somebody had just mentioned his name.
“I don’t know what the Olympic selectors are dreaming of, inviting that guttersnipe Tupper to take part in this race,” said a cut-glass voice. “He’d be a disgrace to the whole British team.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” drawled a second upper class voice. “He drops his aitches and his final g’s and he’s always using words like “blimey” and “blooming” and “aint” and calling people “mate.” And he has moth holes in his running vest and wears odd shoes - one black and one white.” “Have you ever run against him? “Just a couple of times.” “Did you beat him?” “No, I had a very bad cold both times and he just managed to pip me. How about you?” “He pipped me a couple of times but only because I had nasty cramps.” “He’s not all that good, really.” “He’s hopeless. But he has all the luck in the world. “ “You can’t rely on luck in the Olympic Games. I think it’s our duty to the nation keep him out of the team.” “I couldn’t agree more. What do you suggest?” “Well, you could clip his heels, and then if that doesn’t work I could elbow him off the track.” “Sounds a good plan to me.” “Let’s shake on it.” “The blighter should be here soon.” “I bet he hasn’t washed his face.” And then they both laughed heartily. Alf pushed open the door and his coal black face split into a grin at the sight of Gervase Monty and Algy Ditchwood, two young men wearing university blazers and striped silk ties. “Hallo, mates,” he growled. “Blimey, the selectors must be scrapin’ the barrel if they’ve picked two slow coaches like you. “ “Is there a strange smell in here?” said Monte, wrinkling his nose. “We’d better move before it gasses us,” said Ditchwood, and they retreated to the far end of the room. When Alf glanced in the mirror he gave even himself a shock. He dipped his head in the sink, shook it vigorously and gave everybody nearby a shower, changed into his running kit, stretched out on the bench to catch up with some sleep and was soon snoring. Half an hour later an official tapped him on the shoulder and told him it was race time. Alf rubbed his eyes, got to his feet, started towards the door, then stopped and stared in amazement. Hanging on a clothes peg directly opposite was a brown leather flying jacket and next to it a pair of Royal Air Force blue trousers. THE PRINCE RETURNS It was an afternoon of shimmering heat and the faces in the vast crowd seemed to float slowly up and down and sideways. Alf shaded his eyes and peered among the runners strolling towards the start line but could not make out Eric Prince. Then at last he spotted him, sitting on the grass on the inside of the track with his knees drawn up and his chin resting on his hands. His goggles flashed like ships signalling in the night as he gazed towards the crowded grandstand. Alf rushed up to him and stuck out his right hand. Prince hesitated a moment, then shook hands. The fingers were so thin and bony that Alf felt as though he were holding a bundle of broken pencils. “How did you get here?” asked Alf. “I flew,” said Prince, looking up at the sky. “Are you runnin’ this race with us?” “Not half.” “Bloomin’ brilliant. That’s one gold medal for Britain in the bag.” “Yes, it would be lovely to think so. And are you feeling confident, Alf?” “Never fitter, thanks to you, mate. But I’ve got a couple of little problems.” And he described how Monte and Ditchforth were planning to nobble him. “That’s confoundedly un-British!” cried Prince, jumping to his feet. “Point those blighters out to me.” Alf pointed to the cheats. “Just leave ‘em to me,” said Prince. “Now don’t go doing anything daft,” warned Alf. “Come on, Alf. We’d better go and line up.” Alf was delighted that nobody stared at Prince as they walked to the line. “Look, Eric, there was no need to be so shy. They aint takin’ a blind bit of notice of you.” There were five other runners besides Monte, Ditchforth, Prince and Alf. They were Percy Pritchard, the thirty-year-old Welsh preacher, who trained by running up and down Mount Snowdon every day, Horace Oats, the Highland Games champion, Neil Thompson, the new young star from St Andrews University, Zemba the Zulu, the Olympic champion, and Gus Kleinhammer, the American docker and world record holder. The last two were included to spice up the competition. As they were getting in line, Prince muttered to Alf, “Don’t let Monte or Ditchforth get behind you in the first lap. Hang back.” “Can I trust him?” thought Alf. “Yes, of course I can trust him.” The pistol cracked and they were away. Zemba went like an express train, with Kleinhammer and Thompson coupled to him like carriages. Pritchard and Oats were in close attendance. Alf and Prince lagged well in the rear, so that Monte and Ditchforth could not come up behind and do their nobbling. “What are you waiting for, Tupper?” called Monte, looking over his shoulder at Alf. “Forgotten how to run?” “Bother this!” yelled Ditchforth. “We’re losing the race. Come on, let’s go!” Monte and Ditchforth surged away. Prince followed like a bullet and clipped Monte’s heels and sent him cartwheeling off the track and out of the race. Ditchforth glanced behind at his pal with a gape of surprise and was looking the wrong way when Prince gave him a vicious elbow in the ribs which sent him sprawling on to the grass and ended his contest. “All clear, Alf!” cried Prince, as Alf drew level. “Now let’s catch up with the race. Chocks away!” Alf grinned, released the brakes and started to scorch the track. The leaders were half a lap in front. “Can we catch them?” Alf asked himself. “Of course we can. We sleepwalked the first quarter. I’ve got plenty left.” He latched on to Prince like a paper clip on a magnet. A hundred yards from home, as the early leaders wilted in the baking heat, Prince and Alf streaked in front and Prince was the winner by half a yard. Alf lay on the track, gasping for air. An official ran up and asked if he was OK, then said, “Well done, lad. You were a worthy winner.” “Winner? said Alf. “I came second.” Percy Pritchard came panting up and dragged Alf to his feet. “The most amazing mile I ever saw, boyo,” he said. “You gave us all a lap start and then won by fifty yards.” “What about Eric Prince?” Alf demanded. “Eric Prince? The Flying Prince? What about him?” “He was the blooming winner. He beat me by half a yard.” “I think you’ve got a touch of the sun, boyo,” said Pritchard. “The Flying Prince was killed in the Battle of Britain. His Spitfire was shot down over Kent.” “That aint true!” cried Alf. “I should know. I was in the RAF with him. I was one of the coffin bearers at his funeral. Now come on up and collect that gold cup.” Alf hitchhiked home that night with the William Murgatroyd Gold Cup under his arm, wrapped in old newspapers obtained from a chip shop. As the moon sailed high a nice respectable Ford car came along and picked him up. The driver was the cat burglar wearing a clergyman’s dog collar. “Just look in that bag at your feet, my son,” said the burglar, as the car trundled along. Alf fumbled in the bag and drew out a big shining silver cup. “Would a plumber or welder ever get his hands on a cup like that?” asked the burglar. “Lummy, that’s a beauty,” said Alf. ”Pity it aint a gold one.”
