by Phil Earle
The boy followed her without changing his stride.
He did look skywards, but could see nothing. No sun, no bomber, and most importantly, no hope.
2
Joseph had no idea how far from the station the woman’s home was, but he was starting to wonder whether they would reach it before the war ended.
The bus crawled through the streets, feeling every bump and hole with a shudder that travelled through its wheels and up into the bodies of its passengers.
Joseph fizzed and bubbled, his turned head resting on the window, adding to the vibrations.
He’d never seen anything like it: never been in the city before, any city, but in his head, it had never looked like this. He’d expected tall buildings, stretching into the sky, all brick and stone and permanent, not rubble and smoke and carnage.
His eyes fell on the first floor of one building, the front wall obliterated, fragments of chairs and tables scattered: a single framed picture somehow clinging stoically to a nail. It was a painting of a tropical beach: paradise, smack-bang in the middle of hell.
The house next to it was equally shambolic, and no less surreal. Again, the front wall had surrendered, but there was no furniture to be seen, only a capsized wooden box, from which poured Christmas decorations. Baubles sat wedged beside fallen timbers: stray pieces of tinsel blinked and shone.
Ten minutes later and only a few yards on, he saw a boy, little older than himself, perched on a crate in front of a bookshop. The door and windows lay scattered at his feet, beside a very tidy pile of books. The boy was flicking his way through a large volume. When he reached the end, he pulled himself up, clambered through the rubble, and returned the book to a shelf.
Joseph found his top lip curling in disgust. Why the boy didn’t shove the books under his coat and make off with them, he had no idea, but more fool him.
There had been little in the way of conversation between Joseph and Mrs F since they’d left the station. She had tried, but there had been no conviction in her efforts, and as Joseph merely offered monosyllabic grunts in reply, the pair were left to listen to the voices of other passengers, not a happy sound to be heard amongst them.
‘Found him on the corner of Lunham Road, they did. Some of him anyway, his left leg and wallet were seventy yards on. Not that there was anything in it... his wallet, that is.’
‘We’ve not seen the end yet, you know...’
‘There’ll be sirens again tonight, you mark my words. The phony war wasn’t as bad as we thought, eh?’
The voices became noise to Joseph, static, the kind that used to crackle out of Dad’s wireless, no matter how hard he tried to tune it in.
He exhaled, hard, though it did nothing to dispel the frustration buzzing in him. The bus had stopped again and was showing no sign of moving, clouds belching from its back end in protest.
‘Enough,’ tutted Mrs F, pulling her bag from the floor but leaving Joseph’s where they were. ‘We’ll do the rest on foot. Come on, before they enlist us to clear the rubble.’
Joseph struggled behind her, not caring when his luggage clouted each and every passenger unfortunate enough to have an aisle seat. He clattered down the rear stairs too, and through the open exit at the back of the bus.
It made him wonder if anything in this city had a door any more.
‘Keep up. I don’t have the time or inclination to be searching for you between now and home. Today’s been long enough as it is.’ She forged a path past the bus and the toppled building blocking its path, and beyond a group of kids playing a macabre game of Finders Keepersin the rubble.
There was no end of sights and sounds for Joseph to drink in: houses without roofs, roofs without walls, newspaper men and bible-clutchers both shouting about the end of the world. But if any of it did impress or bewitch him, he refused to show it on his face, and followed Mrs F sullenly, leaving enough of a gap so it didn’t look like he was obeying her.
‘Almost there,’ she barked, which was a relief. His hands were turning blue. Early February was no time to be out without gloves, and his hands burned with cold as they clung stiffly to his baggage.
Finally, she turned left onto a street called Calmly View, which looked identical to every other they’d seen so far, in that only half of it seemed to be left standing.
‘Right, this is us,’ she said, pushing at a gate that was as reluctant as the boy behind her. The front door opened more easily, revealing a hallway darker than the street.
‘Shoes off at the door. Outside stays outside.’ Though she made no effort to remove the boots from her own feet.
‘Sitting room is on the right. Sundays only. Leave your shoes by the front door and pile your luggage neatly by the stairs. You can move it shortly. Follow me.’
Joseph wondered what was behind the door in front of them. A flick of a switch revealed a starkly lit room that seemed to match the woman’s personality: cold and lifeless. Barring a tin bath tacked to the wall and a series of austere family photographs, there was little else. The stove was unlit, much like her heart, Joseph thought to himself. From the tiny amount of wood and coal piled next to it, it didn’t look like it would be warming any time soon either.
‘Cold in here,’ he said.
‘Yes, well, best get used to it. That’s the last of the coke, and we’ve not had a delivery in weeks. Not since the last of the lads from the coal yard was conscripted.
‘Lavvie is through the back door and on the left. Don’t be wasting paper in there. And don’t be flushing unnecessarily. Same’s to be said of electricity. No reading in bed, unless it’s by candlelight. In fact, scratch that. Can’t say I like the idea of you and a flame alone together.’
Her words bounced off him. There was little chance of him bothering a book at any time.
‘Look.’ She was staring at him now, her gaze heavy and uncomfortable. ‘I know you don’t want to be here. And you aren’t daft, you can see I’m hardly thrilled myself, but here we are. Your gran, she’s a good woman. Loyal. And I owe her a real debt.’
Joseph felt himself bristle. He didn’t share her opinion of his gran.
‘She helped me, see. Many years ago now, but that’s irrelevant.’ Joseph saw Mrs F’s expression change, like she’d gone momentarily back to that time, but didn’t like what she saw.
‘Why? What did she do?’ His gran had done little for him. It had felt like she couldn’t wait to pack him off soon as the march of Dad’s shiny boots had stopped echoing in their ears.
‘That’s between me and her,’ Mrs F said uncomfortably. ‘And it’s certainly not something to be discussed this evening. Your gran wrote to me. Told me she was struggling to handle you, your behaviour. Your... moods.’
Joseph’s fists clenched at his sides. But Mrs F did not notice.
‘She asked me to have you for a spell. Just while your father is away.’
The anger in him grew. He didn’t like her mentioning his dad. And besides, she didn’t know anything. Doubted very much his gran had shared the important stuff with her.
‘Well, I don’t need you. I can look after myself.’ He had half a mind to collect his case and walk straight back to the station.
‘Not according to your gran, you can’t. According to her, you’re argumentative, aggressive and surly. You’ve been in more scrapes than she can keep up with, and she’s scared. Both for you and for her. That’s why she wanted me to help.’
Joseph thought about arguing with her, but realised she’d just see that as proving her point.
‘I made a promise to your gran,’ she went on, ‘that I’d keep you safe, as much as I can here anyway, and when I make a promise, I like to keep it. So my advice to you is, keep off my toes and I’ll keep off yours. We don’t have to like each other, we don’t even have to pretend, but until your dad comes home, I’m the best you’re going to get. Now, your room is at
the top of the stairs on the right and your bed is made. That’s the last time I’ll do that for you, so make the most of it. Do you want anything to eat? I’ll be needing your ration book and identity card, though Lord knows if they’ll accept it down here. You’ll be registered to a shop up at home. Well? Do you have it?’ Her hand went out, awaiting payment.
He reached into his pocket for his crumpled book as she ranted on, not pausing to breathe, ‘If you are hungry, it’ll have to be something small, mind. I’ve not much in.’
The boy shook his head. The fire in his gut would only incinerate any food he swallowed anyway.
‘Then take yourself off to bed. We’ve work to do tomorrow. Me and you.
‘Oh, and if the siren sounds, get yourself dressed and down here quickly. No dallying, you don’t need to be presentable if Hitler knocks, just prompt.’
And without so much as a goodnight, she unlocked the back door and barrelled through it, leaving Joseph to stand there alone.
3
Joseph prowled his room.
In the hours he had spent up there, he hadn’t bothered to try and sleep. There was no point. It was too cold, for starters.
The room was nothing but a small box, with an iron bedstead and an upturned orange box for a bedside table. To Joseph it felt like a coffin with the lid nailed down.
He didn’t want to be here: in this room, this house, this city, but like everything in life, it seemed he had no choice in how it played out. At the same time, deep in his gut, he knew he was to blame.
He did not like this woman. How dare she suggest Gran was decent or caring? She was neither of those things. If she were decent, he’d not be here. He’d still be at home, left to do as he pleased. It had suited him fine, the way things were, and if it bothered her? Well, it just showed her weakness. He paced harder, and heavier, the room shrinking with every step until he felt he could touch each wall merely by stretching out his arms.
He made for the window and wrenched open the curtains, hopeful that the sight of outside (as alien a landscape as it was), might make him feel less trapped. But there was nothing to see, quite literally, as every inch of the glass had been covered in blackout paint.
His shaking hands reached into his pockets and removed his penknife, but no matter how hard he scratched with the blunt blade, he couldn’t remove the daubed paint. It was sticky and thick, most likely a tar mixture rather than paint itself. All Joseph wanted was to carve a bullet hole into it, to prove there was life outside this prison and his own head, but even that wasn’t possible, and he felt himself beginning to lose control again.
He grabbed the bedside lamp, turning it, club-like, in his hand, throwing the shade to the floor. He didn’t feel the plug rip from the wall, the only thing he felt was the window yield to the club, shattering around it, then an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, when the street outside offered neither light nor any respite to his anxiety. The only things it did prompt were an icy blast of wind, the bark of a dog, and an angry voice telling him to Keep it down, there’s a war on out here!
Suddenly his bedroom door flew open, revealing the silhouette of Mrs F.
‘For the love of God,’ she spat in shock and disappointment, wrapping her dressing gown tightly round her to keep out the cold, before turning to walk down the stairs.
Joseph didn’t move.
Two minutes later she thundered back in, clutching a dustpan, brush, and piece of jagged plywood that she threw onto his bed.
‘You don’t honestly think I can get that replaced do you? I don’t have the money, for starters. And I doubt very much that I could find any glass that hasn’t already been broken by the Jerries. Anyway, you’ll pay for that to be replaced when the time comes,’ she said, pulling a hammer and nails from her dressing gown pocket, ‘but for now, you can fix it yourself.’
And that was that. No lecture, barely a tone to her voice. Instead, she backed out of the room without bothering to slam the door, leaving Joseph to pick up the hammer from the bed.
He looked at the window, had no desire to fix it just because she had told him to, but at the same time, he didn’t fancy dying of hypothermia. Besides, he could see it was an easy job. He knew how to work with tools, and the hammer felt good: heavy in his hand.
Minutes later, the plywood was tacked crudely to the window frame, much to the delight of the already irate neighbour.
And when he was done? Well, Joseph didn’t know what to do with himself, so he prowled some more, stewed some more, and cursed his luck repeatedly, until finally, his energy ran out. He sat on the floor, pulling the blanket on top of him, so he could ignore the bed Mrs F had made in one final, wilful protest.
His eyes opened to the most grotesque of sights: Mrs F, standing above him, arms folded, nostrils flared.
‘You’ve made a real pig’s ear of repairing that window,’ she sighed. ‘And as I said last night, you’ll be paying for it yourself. That, and any others you decide to break, so think on.’
Joseph didn’t move. It couldn’t possibly be morning. He’d only just closed his eyes, for Pete’s sake.
‘And what are you doing down there? Your rent doesn’t go up if you sleep in the bed, you know.’
Joseph pulled the scratchy woollen blanket right up to his chin, exposing his toes to the cold. He didn’t want her looking at him in his vest and pants.
The woman, annoyingly, seemed to read his mind.
‘I’d cover myself up too, if my underwear were the colour of yours. I suggest you bring your clothes down with you. If we get them scrubbed now and hung over the stove, they’ll be dry by the time we get home.’
‘Where are we going?’ Joseph mumbled.
‘I told you last night. Work. Paying for that mess.’ She pointed at the window. ‘Now, be down in five minutes. And don’t forget your laundry, otherwise you’ll be wearing out my stair carpet unnecessarily.’
Joseph dressed slowly. Not because there was anything better to do, just because he was damned if he was going to do what she told him.
He bundled up the rest of his clothes and carried them downstairs to the backroom, which smelled strongly of porridge. It was the first pleasant smell to invade Joseph’s nostrils since he’d arrived, waking his stomach with an impatient growl.
‘About time,’ Mrs F offered in way of a greeting. ‘You were lucky there was no air raid last night, or you really would be tired.’
Joseph had never experienced an air raid, but he’d heard reports about them on the wireless. About the mess and the smell and people sleeping in church halls because there was nothing left of their house. He’d heard about kids his age who thought it was all the most exciting adventure, roaming the streets trying to find shrapnel and bullets and helmets afterwards. Pathetic, he’d scoffed. Though there was one report on the news about a group of kids finding their own machine gun, sawing it clean off a crashed German bomber, and hiding it. That sort of adventure, he wouldn’t mind. Imagine that, he thought, having your own machine gun?
‘Come on, your porridge is on the table,’ Mrs F barked, without turning from the meagerly-lit stove. ‘There’s already a pinch of sugar in it so don’t be looking for any more. I suggest you fill your boots now, as there’ll be precious little else until supper.’
He had no interest in conversation. He was hungry. So he dropped his laundry at his feet and looked at the table. There were two steaming bowls on it, but one serving was much smaller than the other. Guessing this was his, he sat before it, only for Mrs F to switch the bowls round.
‘No, this one’s yours,’ she said, a slight flush to her face.
Joseph didn’t care. He pounced on it, almost forgetting to use the spoon at all.
Three mouthfuls in, he felt her eyes on him, frowning, of course. Was her face permanently fixed in that position, or was she saving it just for him?
‘What?’ he
said.
‘When was the last time you ate?’
He shrugged. ‘Yesterday probably.’ Though he knew exactly when and what it was: an apple stolen off a stall before he got on the train. His grandmother had made him a sandwich, but he’d dumped it in the bin without her seeing. He didn’t want anything she’d made.
Anyway, he thought, he had porridge now. And although it didn’t have enough milk or sweetness to it, he didn’t care, and he fell on it again, ramming it into his mouth until his pupils dilated. He was careful not to let her see though – after all, the woman didn’t care about him. She was on his gran’s side. She’d made that only too clear.
‘You might as well have mine too,’ she said, spooning her porridge into his bowl.
‘What’s wrong with it?’ he spat through a full mouth.
‘Nothing. Not hungry, that’s all. When you’ve finished, you can get your hands in that bucket. There’s suds already in there, and a brush. Your clothes will think it’s their birthday.’
But Joseph had no idea how to go about getting clothes clean. And even when he tried (just to get her to leave him alone) she found fault in his every move.
‘Don’t be wringing it out like that, not till you’ve soaked it properly...
‘Keep the water in the bowl, not on my rug...
‘Can you not see that stain ther—’
‘If I’m doing such a lousy job,’ he finally snapped, sluicing water all over the floor, ‘wouldn’t it just be easier for you to do it yourself?’
But the woman didn’t step forward or change her expression. ‘No, it wouldn’t. It’d be a lot easier if you learned quickly how to listen and take orders. Now, once you’ve wrung them out properly, lay them flat on the rail by the stove. If they’re all bunched up, it’ll be Christmas before they’re ready to wear. And dry that floor up, too. We leave in fifteen minutes, so be ready. And be prepared to graft. We’ve a long day ahead.’