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‘What does pro bono mean?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘For nothing, lad; free, gratis, goodwill. Still, mustn’t grumble. At least we’ve got a ruler who understands the worth of your working man.’
They had now reached Pseudopolis Yard, and, gesturing towards the Opera House, Sir Harry continued: ‘Even though the performers don’t eat very much, that place gets through so much fizzy wine it’s a golden river in its own right, and that, my boy, is why they call me King of the Golden River.’
‘Sorry, Sir Harry,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
Harry King smiled and said, ‘Well, lad, there’s poo, isn’t there? And there’s piss! And, to tell you the truth, I started my career leaving buckets outside every public house for people to piss in, and me and my lads would take them away when they were full. And we would sell it. Amazing stuff. I mean, it’s almost alchemical really. It’s astonishing what you can get out of it, even explosives if you’re careful – but don’t worry about that yourself, of course, it never actually happens while you’re doing it.’
As the journey progressed, every now and then Sir Harry would bang on the roof of the coach with his stick and give the driver instructions to either detour round the back of a building or turn off into an alley and stop near one of his collection points, where he would lean out of the window to make sure everything was in order. He seemed to know everyone by name and his gruff voice cut through the clamour of the street straight into the un-fragrant ears of his employees. ‘Just you clean up that spillage, Jake,’ he shouted to a young man trying to kick something into the gutter. ‘That’s money straight down the drain, that is!’
Just as the Royal College of Heralds came into view in the distance, Sir Harry said: ‘And after the piss pots I realized that there was money to be made in the things that people were throwing away. Everything. There’s always someone who could use something, and they have to get it from Harry King.’
They drew up at the large green gates, stepped down from the coach and rang the bell. A small wicket gate in the main door was opened by a liveried porter who asked them their business. ‘I have an appointment with the Herald, smart boy,’ said Sir Harry, taking his cigar out of his mouth. ‘To discuss the progress of my coat of arms.’
‘Which herald would that be?’ asked the doorman, seeming a little unnerved.
‘Search me,’ said Harry. ‘Something like, er, reddish breakfast roll?’
The porter let them into the courtyard and Geoffrey looked around. It was much smaller than he expected, but quite smelly. In the middle was a muddy pond with a couple of hippos wallowing in it, and a small owl was perched on the handle of an old broom leaning against the wall.
‘If you would like to come this way, Sir Harold,’ said the returning porter, ‘we have a design mapped out for your approval. And is there anything we can do to help your young friend?’ he asked, eyeing Geoffrey.
‘Oh, I expect he’ll find something to do around here, he likes the animals,’ said Sir Harry, giving Geoffrey a big wink. ‘Very studious boy, this young lad, very interested in what you gentlemen would call, I suspect, animal excrement.’
‘I’ll let old Joseph keep an eye on the young man. He cleans the yard for us and knows his way around all the pens,’ said the porter, leading Sir Harry away.
A small elderly man, his head bent forward, emerged slowly from a shed and, transferring the owl to his shoulder, took hold of the broom, which he used as a support to walk across the yard. ‘Can I help you clean the animals’ cages?’ asked Geoffrey, seeing a definite poo opportunity.
‘Well, I’ve been round the hippos,’ said the old man, ‘but they’ll probably start again soon. You could give me a hand with the wyvern if you like, he always needs scraping out.’
Geoffrey and the old man walked towards a cage where a miserable-looking creature lay slumped on damp straw. ‘Here, use this,’ said the old man, handing Geoffrey a flat wooden shovel. Just scrape his doings into that bucket there.’
Geoffrey did as instructed and contrived at the same time to get a small amount of the surprisingly green poo into one of his lined pockets.
They wandered slowly back towards the hippos. ‘Oh no, here we go, look out,’ said Joseph. ‘Mind your back against the wall, just stand with me in the corner here and we should be all right.’
Geoffrey watched with amazement as one of the hippos emerged from the pond and started whirling his short tail round like a windmill, spraying poo in a wide arc.3
‘Goodness, do they always do that?’ asked Geoffrey.
‘Mostly they do,’ said the old man. ‘I cleans up what I can, but sometimes I can’t reach because it goes so high.’
Geoffrey looked at the wall behind him and sure enough there were lumps of dried hippo poo plastered across the stones above him. The old man pushed the broom across the yard. ‘I’ll move what I can now,’ he said, ‘because once it sets it’s a bugger to shift.’ Geoffrey managed to dislodge a dried lump and secrete it in another of his jacket pockets.
He looked hopefully at the morpork still sitting on the old man’s shoulder. The owl, somehow knowing what was required, hunched down and obliged by doing a poo, which landed on the old man’s back.
‘Oh dear,’ said Geoffrey, suppressing a smile, ‘that owl’s done a poo on your jacket. Would you like me to wipe it off?’
He was just scraping his morpork specimen into yet another pocket when Sir Harry emerged into the yard. ‘Ready to go, Geoffrey?’ Sir Harry asked, taking in the scene.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Geoffrey. And so they climbed into the coach and swiftly set off for Nonesuch Street.
‘Well, you certainly take your hobby seriously, young man,’ said Sir Harry. ‘I like a boy with purpose. How would you like to visit my yard tomorrow? I’ll send a coach to pick you up bright and early and we can go down the river together in my launch.’
‘I’d like that more than anything in the world,’ said Geoffrey, enthusiastically.
‘Very well. We’ll check with Grand-mama when we drop you off,’ said Sir Harry.
