The Blitz Business

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The Blitz Business Page 9

by D. A. Spruzen


  “Behave yourself, Alan, or you’ll be in the jacket again. Want another shock treatment? How did you like it last time?” Alan stared at his shoes. The big man talked funny.

  Jamie was so scared he couldn’t stop shaking. He couldn’t talk. Didn’t look at the bad boy.

  “I’m sorry about that, Jamie,” said Mrs. Clancy, patting the back of her hair, afraid she looked untidy, perhaps, although all those little curls were so tight it didn’t look as if even the blitz could shift them. “We’ll keep Alan in check, I promise. He doesn’t really kill people, you know, he’s just a bit rough sometimes. I’m going to leave you here for a while so you can make yourself at home.”

  Home? What kind of a home is this? Nothing cheery, no brightly colored cushions, no pictures on the wall. The Manor was full of pictures, although some of them were of people who didn’t look very cheerful or pretty. Even Gran would tear a page out of a magazine and pin it to the wall if she thought it had a happy look. Jamie used to have lots of pictures on the walls of his room, until Roy pulled them down and tore them up.

  Jamie looked around. Some boys were big and some were small. Some stared at him, some looked at nothing. None of them talked to each other, although a few seemed to be talking to themselves. The sun probably never shined in here because the darkness kept it out. Why am I in a place like this? They’re not like me. They probably can’t read or talk nicely. His tummy felt heavy and his breath came hard. He was sad, but not sad like when he lost Gran. Sad like if he went to sleep he might not bother waking up.

  George had got his chair up next to him. He could make the wheels move with his hands. He grunted, and then his eyes and head jerked to a corner where there was one empty chair. Jamie went over and sat down, holding his knees to keep his hands still. George wheeled up next to him and grunted again. Something had gone wrong with George a long time ago, like it had with Jamie. Only things were more wrong with George. Jamie turned and put his face close to George’s. He looked over the scrunchy face and into the jumpy eyes. George struggled and pushed to tell him something, but he had a bad body, all over bad, so he couldn’t walk or talk properly. Maybe he was smart on the inside and nobody knew.

  “Are you smart, George?” Jamie asked.

  George made a face, perhaps a smile, and pushed out a noise that could have been “Yes.”

  8

  Roy shoved his hands in his pockets as he shuffled from foot to foot in the freezing February wind. At least the trains were still running; he’d checked that early on. He peered down the street looking for the bloody ambulance, half an hour late already. Always emergencies with these fucking Huns bombing the world to hell and back. He heard it coming before he saw it round the corner. Silly little bell sound, didn’t sound like something to take any notice of.

  “Roy Beck for Sarah Lester,” he told the driver, who nodded and opened the back doors. Sarah, already in a wheel chair, had a blanket over her lap that lay embarrassingly lopsided.

  “Good morning, Roy. This is very good of you.” Such a tight smile, tight words. Snooty little cow. She might have forgotten how she’d snubbed him down in the underground tunnel, but he hadn’t. Ought to be grateful, really. She’d saved his life. Her family had been killed where they sat. She only survived because she went to the lav.

  He thanked the driver, who wasn’t much friendlier, and whirled the chair around and into the station. He heard her gasp.

  “Could you move more slowly? I’m still in a lot of pain.”

  “Sorry, love. Know what you mean, I’ve only just got off crutches myself.”

  “Yes, Derek said you broke your leg. I’m sorry about that.”

  “And I’m sorry you lost yours.” She bowed her head and sighed. Oh, this was going to be a merry journey.

  One of the porters helped him get the chair onto the train and find them two window seats opposite each other. He helped Roy lift her off the chair and into her seat before folding it and taking it away. He hoped to God she wouldn’t need to go to the toilet. Sarah pulled a book out of her satchel.

  “Do you mind if I read? It takes my mind off things.”

  “’Course not.” Good, God knows what they could have talked about.

  The carriage started filling up, and for Roy’s bad luck a couple of wrinklies came to sit next to them. The old man, skinny as a string, sat next to Sarah, edging himself as far away from her empty left side as he could. Did he think it was catching? His fat wife sank into the seat next to Roy, squeezing him against the cold metal wall.

  “Shit,” he muttered. Sarah’s head shot up.

  “I beg your pardon?” said the old man.

  “Nothing,” Roy said, sullenly.

  “I should hope not!” Silly old git, he was knee high to a grasshopper. Did he think he could take Roy on? He caught Sarah’s glare and looked out of the window.

  After a long, boring wait, the train pulled away. Their carriage was close to the front, so they caught the full blast of the locomotive’s deafening labors. His view of London was a cruel scene of random destruction, most streets looking like a mouthful of rotting teeth—too many gaps, some houses broken and stained, and others still whole against all odds. He laid his head back. May as well have a kip.

  He woke with a start as the wrinklies hauled themselves out of their seats and he fell sideways when he lost his mainstay. The train was slowing. Stubbly fields and a few cows were all he could see now. He’d never been to the countryside before. He wasn’t going to like it, he could tell right off. Sarah was looking at him, sort of smiling.

  “What?”

  “It was funny when she got up and you fell about like a beetle in a jam jar.”

  “Very amusing.” Her smile switched off and she returned to her book.

  The old man had left his paper on the seat. Better than nothing. He skipped the war news on the front page. Same old shit. The papers were pretty thin these days. Not much sporting stuff anymore. Not much sport going on, of course. He opened the center page. His stomach flipped as he stared, transfixed, at the photo. He glanced Sarah’s way. Mustn’t give anything away. Jamie’s sloppy grin took up nearly half a page. How the hell had he made it? He read faster than he ever had before, which wasn’t fast enough.

  The headline was huge: Evacuees Mistreated! They told a few stories about children being badly treated, then got on to Jamie, who had most of the space. He had been found wandering the streets, grandmother died in the house, evacuated to Hampshire, abused by a farmer, got pneumonia. That bloody little sod! Still alive. Shit, shit, shit! The next line gave him pause. Taken in by Sir Geoffrey and Lady McInnis of Brockenhurst Downs. Well, the little runt had really fallen on his feet. No mention of Roy, though, so that was a good thing. Maybe he hadn’t mentioned being locked in. Or about the fight. He folded the newspaper and sat on it.

  “Sarah, where does Betty work?”

  “In Brockenhurst Downs, near New Milton. Why?”

  “Just wondering. Big house, is it?”

  “Yes, she works for Lady Audrey McInnis. Funny to think of Betty in a place like that.”

  “Love to get a look at the place. I’ll be looking for a job, don’t forget.”

  “I’m sure they’re short of men at the moment. Only thing is they’ll want references. Do you really have any?”

  “Of course I do!” Bitch.

  Roy lapsed into deep thought and deep scheming for the rest of the journey.

  “Roy! Roy! New Milton’s next. You’ll need to get a porter.”

  The porter got the chair and told him to wait until everyone else was out of the carriage. He supposed that worked best, but he just couldn’t wait. He had to stop Jamie before he let something drop and people started asking questions. Had to stop him.

  He pushed Sarah into the waiting room. No one was there.

  “Didn’t you say we’d be met?”

  “Yes, I don’t know by whom, though.”

  Roy went to the ticket office.

  “Has
anyone been in asking for a Miss Lester? Someone was supposed to meet us, and she’s in a wheelchair.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. Lady Audrey has sent her car. There it is outside.”

  Roy looked at the big shiny Bentley in gleeful appreciation. No wonder the clerk had called him sir. No one had ever called him sir before.

  “Come on, Sarah, we’re going in style!”

  He couldn’t resist whirling the chair around again with a flourish.

  “Roy! That hurt.”

  “Sorry, love.”

  The driver got out of the car when he saw them emerge and walked around to meet them as if he were in a funeral procession.

  “Would this be Miss Sarah?”

  “Yes, it would.”

  The man made his grand way to the boot and opened it.

  “Would you please assist the young lady into the car? I will then fold the chair and put it in the boot.”

  No offer to help. Well, it would be pretty awkward with two of them, actually. He’d better put his best foot forward, not get on anyone’s bad side. He got Sarah in, but not without some ahs and ouches. How could it hurt so much when it wasn’t there anymore? Maybe the stitches. She was a complainer, all right. The driver got into his seat at his own pace. Roy had never seen the King, but he probably walked that way. Putting on airs, silly old goat. And it wasn’t as if he owned the bloody car.

  They drove for a good half hour through narrow roads with hedges and open fields instead of the blocks of flats Roy was used to. Of course, he’d been up West lots of times, but they had great big houses there, nothing like these little old ones dotted around.

  He finally saw a really big one.

  “Whose house is that?” he asked.

  “That is the estate of Sir Geoffrey McInnis.” No “sir” coming out of this old sod.

  “Your sister’s house is not far now, Miss Lester.”

  They turned down a lane, bumping over ruts that made Sarah turn pale. The cottage looked tiny and the walls didn’t seem entirely straight. Betty must have been waiting for them as she rushed out of the door and to Sarah’s side of the car. Revolting the way she blubbered and kissed Sarah’s face over and over until the driver was ready with the wheelchair. She hadn’t said a word of welcome to him yet.

  “This is so very kind of you, Stanton.” Betty was still teary.

  “It was a pleasure, miss. I do wish the young lady all the very best.”

  Betty lifted Sarah out of the car herself, beefy piece that she was.

  “Come on, love, we’ll get you warmed up and in bed in no time.”

  Stanton turned to Roy. “You are to stay in the servant’s quarters up at the Manor until you have made other arrangements. Come with me.”

  Getting better and better. Be careful Jamie doesn’t give me away. Must stay out of sight until the right moment.

  “Goodbye, Betty, nice seeing you again. Bye, Sarah.”

  “Thank you, Roy. Bye!” Like a cats’ chorus. He watched them go into the cottage and slam the door. Not really that noisy, but felt like a slam in his face.

  “You can sit in the front seat now, if you please.” Why? Well, he wasn’t going to argue.

  The car pulled around to the side of the Manor.

  “Are all these places for cars?” he asked.

  “No, they were all built as stables. Two have been converted for the cars.” They drove into one. “I will take you to the kitchen door, and you will be shown to your room.”

  “Yeah, thanks. I was reading in the paper about a young boy, name of Jamie. Is this the place he’s staying?”

  “Not any longer, sir. He was removed to the Blexton Institute just a few days ago. We were all sad to see him go.”

  Damn. He’d got away again.

  “Sad? Why?”

  “Oh, he’s a lovely young gentleman, and had quite a green thumb in the garden. Evans will certainly miss him.”

  “Who?”

  “Evans is the head gardener.”

  Stanton rapped on the kitchen door and a plump girl in a uniform opened it. She looked Roy up and down and smirked. Definitely liked what she saw. He’d explore that later.

  “This is the person who accompanied Betty’s sister from London.”

  “Roy Beck, pleased to meet you,” he said.

  He stepped into another world, a world where the kitchen was nearly bigger than Gran’s whole flat, where he had to climb hundreds of stairs to get to a bedroom that was better than any he’d ever had. And he hadn’t even seen the posh parts yet.

  He wanted this world, would find a way to worm his way in. But first, he had to take care of Jamie.

  * * *

  The institute looked huge and magnificent from a distance, but close up it looked less impressive. The stonework was grimy and slivers of carving had fallen off all over. He stopped outside the door and heaved a sigh. He must remember his proper talk like Gran used to try to make him do. A nervy knot tightened in his stomach at the very thought of Gran and the expression on her face as she died. That face never left him alone. He’d thought he was rid of her, but she still hung around, hounding him night after night.

  The cheek pads he’d put in an hour before took some getting used to. At least they’d remind him to make his mouth move differently. No one knew him down here except Jamie, and he was easy to fool. He’d never recognize him, especially after the dye job.

  The woman at the front desk looked him up and down and sniffed. “Can I help you?”

  “I telephoned yesterday. I have an appointment with Mrs. Clancy at two o’clock.”

  “Wait here, please. I will let her know you are here.” She trudged away down a long dark corridor.

  No respect. He’d show them all one day. He went over to a chair under a small window and sat, hands clasped between his knees.

  Two sets of footsteps, one slow and heavy, the other brisk and noisy. Roy stood.

  “I’m Mrs. Clancy. Graham—what was your surname?”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Clancy. Graham Green.”

  “Well, Graham, I think the best thing would be to show you around first, then we’ll go to my office for a chat.”

  “Yes, fine, thank you.”

  “We’ll start with the boys. Most of them are not too bad.”

  The room was dreary and depressing and smelled of piss. He caught sight of Jamie sitting in a corner next to a twisted little creature in a wheel chair. He turned his head away in time to see a boy with thick lips peeing into the next corner. A man had been yelling in a thick accent at a large gangly teenager with small brutal eyes, almost nose to nose, until he noticed this last occurrence. He strode over to a cupboard and pulled out some towels and threw them at the teen. “Alan, you clean that up.”

  “Why should I? Philip did it, make him clean it.”

  “Philip can’t do anything. You’ll do it because I said so. You want trouble?”

  The boy grabbed the towels, pushed Philip aside, and started to mop up, muttering obscenities under his breath.

  Mrs. Clancy watched all this with her hands curling and uncurling by her side. She sighed.

  “That was two of our difficult ones. Philip is profoundly retarded and Alan is really very difficult. Not very bright, but more disturbed than retarded. And the man on duty today is one of our other attendants, Bernhardt Visser. He is a Dutch refugee. Bernhardt! Come and say hello to Graham. He might be joining us.”

  “We could do with the help.” The man said gruffly, extending a hand. Roy smiled in his friendliest fashion and tried to match the Dutchman’s grip.

  They worked their way around. The women’s room was unsettling, a restless wandering and chattering that almost became a scream. The worst day room was the adult males. Total chaos, a cacophony of rage and stink. Two very large men watched over this room. Graham couldn’t wait to get out of there. Mrs. Clancy looked at him and smiled.

  “Don’t worry, it takes a special breed to work with the adults. Our open spot is with the boy
s. I don’t think we’ll worry about the girls just now. Let’s go back to my office.”

  Once they were seated on each side of Mrs. Clancy’s desk and the tea was poured and the biscuits set out, she sat back and looked at him with a little frown.

  “What brings you here, Graham?”

  “I wanted to get out of London, and I’m not able to fight, unfortunately. I brought my papers.” He passed them across the desk. She glanced over them and handed them back.

  “They seem to be in order. But are you fit enough to work with these boys?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. I just can’t march for miles, and I can’t shoot. One of my eyes isn’t right.”

  “Oh, I would never have guessed. They both look quite normal.”

  “Thank you. Yes, I’m lucky that way. Not being too unsightly, I mean, not that I can’t fight.” He found himself stammering and blushing. Damn!

  “Have you ever had anything to do with the mentally ill? We don’t require qualifications because the job is fairly straightforward and you can learn as you go. But it helps if you have had some exposure.”

  “Yeah … er, yes. My brother was retarded. I looked after him a lot.”

  “Oh, very good. Where is he now?”

  “He’s dead, and Mum, too. Last big raid. My employer in the city gone the same night. Whole building flattened. It’s been terrible. I need a change.”

  “I’m so sorry, Graham. What was your last job?”

  “I was a clerk in an export office. Had to do all kinds of things, you know, pitch in. Even help move the goods sometimes. No references, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, I think you might be the right type of person. Let’s see how it goes for a while. Two pounds a week, how does that sound? And you’ll get your meals and a room and one day off a week.”

  “Very good. Thank you, Mrs. Clancy. When do you want me?”

  “As soon as you can.”

  “I can start anytime.”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight?”

  That was that. Slave wages, but a foot in. It shouldn’t take long to do what needed doing.

  9

  Mrs. Clancy told him yesterday he’d been here two whole weeks. And Rosie hadn’t come. Not one time. Jamie rolled over and shut his eyes again. He didn’t want to get up. Didn’t want to go to that horrid big room with all those nasty boys. He’d woken up in the night and tried rocking, but it didn’t make him feel better anymore. He said fiddle-faddle over and over in his head; he couldn’t say it out loud in case people thought him mad. Didn’t help.

 

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