Vinnie's War

by David McRobbie

  ‘It wasn’t a taxi.’ Dobbs didn’t care who heard. ‘Not in this place.’

  ‘I expect they came in Mrs Ormsby-Chapman’s car,’ Kathleen sniffed, and Vinnie liked her even more. Dobbs and Joey, too.

  He stood with them watching the selection process happen. It was a peculiar way of going on, he thought, starting when a majestic-looking woman sailed into the hall like some grand ocean-liner docking at Tilbury. She had to be someone important in the village. Her ladyship wore a tweed skirt, a fox fur round her shoulders and a long feather in her hat. Straight away she took a fancy to Ralph DuPreis and he took a liking to her. She smiled down and he smiled up; she murmured a few words to him, and Vinnie heard Ralph answer, ‘Yes, ra-ther!’ Then off they went, both well pleased with their choice of each other.

  ‘Looks like he’s all right,’ Kathleen whispered.

  Dobbs added, ‘And they all lived happily ever after.’

  Joey said, ‘Amen.’

  ‘Don’t say that, Joey,’ Kathleen scolded.

  Joey fired back, ‘You can say things about him, why can’t I?’

  ‘Because I’m older,’ she answered.

  Somehow all four of them realised that to be well chosen, you had to look right.

  Ralph’s mate was next to go. Mrs Ormsby-Chapman had picked the boy out and kept him close at hand until a second woman entered the hall. She was less grand than the one who’d taken Ralph, and didn’t wear a fox fur or feathered hat. But she spoke nicely. Almost at once she weighed up Ralph’s mate and breathed, ‘Oh, yes.’ After a few enthusiastic words between them, they left the hall chatting as if they’d known each other forever.

  Where Vinnie had lived in London, few people were better off than their neighbour. No one had more money, more possessions or better prospects than anyone else. And Vinnie had never felt envy. Everyone was in the same boat, except Aunty Vera, who’d made herself a cut above most people. But they knew Vera. ‘Lady Muck’ is what they called her – more lah-di-dah than the Queen.

  It was well known there were toffs and nobs, wealthy people, who lived in the country or the better-off parts of London. Few of Vinnie’s lot ever went to those parts of London, unless it was to do a bit of work, like clearing a blocked drain or shifting some furniture. (‘Ta, guv’nor. Much obliged.’) Mind you, there were some who went there without invitation, usually in the dead of night for a spot of thieving.

  So Vinnie had never had anything to do with the upper class until now. And what he’d just witnessed didn’t make him envious – far from it. If that was how they stuck together, they were welcome to each other.

  Then the ordinary foster-parents were allowed into the hall. They entered together, as if they’d been queuing outside. Some smiled and talked to the children straight away, but others cast their eyes around shrewdly, saying nothing. One woman approached Vinnie’s group, moving slowly with arms folded across her chest, handbag dangling from its strap on her shoulder. She weighed all four of them up, then confronted Kathleen: ‘Brother and sister, are you?’

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘And staying together.’ Joey moved closer to Kathleen.

  The woman sniffed. ‘M-mm. I’m really looking for two girls. And a bit older.’

  ‘Sorry, love,’ Vinnie said, talking like a market stallholder, ‘we ain’t got any your size.’

  The woman ignored him and moved on. Kathleen whispered, ‘This is horrible.’

  Joey added, ‘It’s like a slave market. Remember that story Mum read us?’

  ‘Mum read you the story, Joey, not me.’

  ‘Do you think we’ll have to work in our billets?’ Joey said in a small voice.

  ‘Nah, we’ll be fine,’ Dobbs assured him. ‘And it’s not a slave market, Joey. Leastways, they’re not paying for us.’

  Now that Vinnie could see the other evacuees properly, he noticed that one or two were poorly dressed and none too clean. The foster-parents passed the scruffy ones quickly; maybe giving a smile or asking what their name was, or where they came from, although everyone knew the answer was London. Vinnie guessed they wanted to know which part of London. The cleaner, better-dressed evacuees were first to go.

  The handbag woman chose a small girl in a pixie hood and grubby skirt with stains on it. The woman remarked to another, ‘On the way home I’ll stop off at the chemist. Get something for her hair. You know – lice.’ Then she left the hall and the girl followed meekly. She’d heard every word her new foster-parent had said.

  Next it was Dobbs Stefanski’s turn to go. A short, but pleasant-looking woman shielded her eyes with a hand, gazed at his height and said, ‘Well, you’re a lofty one, and no mistake. What’s it like up there?’

  ‘Elevated,’ he said.

  ‘You’ll be handy in my shop. Get things down from high shelves. So would you like to come with me, then?’

  Dobbs gave Vinnie, Kathleen and Joey a who-can-help-it shrug and murmured, ‘So long, see you sometime.’ Then he went off with the woman, who asked his name and said kindly as they left the hall, ‘Was it a long journey, then?’

  Joey watched them enviously. ‘Why can’t we go with that lady?’

  ‘We don’t get to choose, Joey,’ Kathleen responded. ‘They do.’

  ‘Hullo, you two are to come with me.’ A sharp-voiced woman stood a little distance away, looking Kathleen and Joey up and down as if measuring them for something. ‘The pair of you will do very well in my house. There’s only me and my son, Dennis. He works on the railway, in a reserved occupation.’

  Kathleen and Joey picked up their suitcases and gas masks and followed the woman to the door, then both turned and gave Vinnie a resigned sort of wave. Kathleen asked the woman, ‘May Joey and I know your name, please?’

  ‘Oh, nice manners.’ The woman was impressed. ‘I’m Mrs Watney. Did you bring your ration books?’

  As the afternoon wore on, all the other evacuees went away with foster-parents, leaving Vinnie on his own. Mrs Ormsby-Chapman kept reassuring him that someone would come soon. More time passed, and Vinnie sensed she was losing confidence about anyone else turning up. He was too, but he tried not to show any concern. From time to time, the woman conferred in a hushed voice with two other WVS women. The shrug of their shoulders plainly said: What are we going to do with him tonight?

  Don’t worry, ladies, Vinnie thought, I don’t want to be stuck with you any more than you want to be lumbered with me.

  ‘Won’t be long now,’ Mrs Ormsby-Chapman said brightly for the fifth time.

  At that moment, the hall door opened and another woman came in, looking flustered. ‘Am I too late?’

  ‘No, no, not at all, Mrs Greenwood.’ Mrs Ormsby-Chapman hid her relief. ‘This one is called Vinnie Cartwright.’ She added, ‘The last puppy in the pet shop.’

  As he left the hall with Mrs Greenwood, Vinnie felt like saying, ‘Woof, woof!’ Then cocking a leg and pretending to pee against the doorpost. That’d teach them.

  ***

  Meanwhile, on the outskirts of town, Kathleen and Joey had discovered that Mrs Watney’s house had three storeys and stood apart from its neighbours. As they walked, she said to Joey, ‘Now, young man, are you dry at night?’

  Joey didn’t understand. ‘Do you mean, do I get thirsty?’

  Kathleen came to his aid. ‘Joey’s very good. Has been for years.’

  ‘I like to know these things,’ Mrs Watney said. ‘I can’t be washing bedsheets all the time.’

  They reached the house and Mrs Watney opened the door for them.

  Kathleen and Joey were to share a bedroom at the top of the house. It had a sloping ceiling with a skylight window, which was covered with thick black paper. The only daylight came through the open door to the hallway. There were two single beds, each with a quilt made of stitched-together squares o
f different material. The room also had a cupboard with some wooden coathangers inside. Mrs Watney instructed, ‘The lavatory’s one floor down, and there’s a chamber-pot under the bed. Make sure you empty it in the morning and rinse it out. We don’t want any disease here. You get a bath once a week and you share the water, one after the other, of course – and don’t fill the bath more than four inches.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Watney,’ Kathleen agreed. The advert-isement for Pears soap said it could be five inches! But never mind.

  ‘Tea’s at half-past five, and you’ll eat in the kitchen with Dennis and I,’ Mrs Watney went on. ‘And you’re not to waste food.’

  The list went on: they could have the gaslight on in the bedroom, but it was to be out by half-past eight. Kathleen and Joey already knew about the black- out, from London. No one was allowed to show a light from a window or doorway at night, in case it was seen by a German bomber. There were no streetlights, and cars, lorries and buses had hoods over their headlamps. Some people bought luminous flowers to wear at night so they could be seen walking along the street. The blackout caused dozens of accidents.

  ‘Now,’ Mrs Watney finished her introduction, ‘I’ll let you settle in. You can bring the ration books when you come downstairs.’ She gave a final suspicious look around, then stumped off down the hall.

  Joey said in a voice of dismay, ‘This is the horriblest wicked-witch story there ever was.’

  ‘At least we’ve got a potty,’ Kathleen pointed out. ‘That’s something, isn’t it?’

  Joey sat on one of the beds and folded his arms. ‘I hate Adolf Hitler. Bet he doesn’t sleep in a place like this.’

  ‘And I bet he wets his bed,’ Kathleen added firmly. Joey caught Kathleen’s eye and she smiled. In this war, making jokes about Adolf Hitler was all that children could do.

  ***

  As Vinnie walked with Mrs Greenwood, she ex-plained, ‘You’ll stay at Netterfold House, Vinnie. I’m Miss Armstrong’s housekeeper. She keeps to herself.’

  ‘But I’ll meet her?’

  ‘It’s not likely. She made room for you, but that’s as much as she’ll do.’

  ‘Then how can I say thanks?’ Vinnie persisted. ‘I mean, I’d have to, wouldn’t I?’

  ‘There’s no need. Miss Armstrong’s done her bit—’

  At that moment, a group of local boys barged out of a shop doorway. They swung in behind Vinnie, calling in turn, ‘There goes another one! Taking over the place.’

  ‘Yeah, bloody vaccies. Took our school bus. We had to walk home.’

  ‘Go back where you came from. Coward! Run-ning away from a few old bombs.’

  ‘Why are you giving him house room, missus?’

  The boys began to chant, ‘Vaccy coward! Vaccy coward!’

  Mrs Greenwood turned to face the tallest boy, who had pushed forward from the group. ‘Freddie Preston, stop being such a child.’ Vinnie recognised him as the red-headed local he’d seen from the bus window.

  The local boys broke off their chant, but they still muttered and jeered. Mrs Greenwood and Vinnie walked on, but Freddie Preston had a final jibe: ‘You’ll be murdered in your bed, missus. You’ll see. Except you won’t see, ’cause you’ll be dead.’

  Vinnie remembered what Dobbs had said on the train: ‘I thought we were at war with old Hitler.’

  ***

  The kitchen of Netterfold House was a large room with a long wooden table taking up the middle. There were shelves on the walls and tidy racks of copper cooking pots and dishes. How will I fit in here? Vinnie wondered. Everything seemed to belong together. Take one thing away and it wouldn’t look right.

  Adolf took a lot of things away and now nothing looks right.

  ‘I expect you’ve had quite a day, Vinnie,’ Mrs Greenwood said. ‘All that travelling and waiting around.’

  And the bombs and the deaths. Voom-ah, voom-ah, crump, CRUMP, CRUMP!

  Tears came to his eyes as he stood there in the kitchen. Mrs Greenwood saw this and turned away to give him a moment.

  Then from another part of the house came the gentle intrusion of someone playing a piano. Instantly, it carried Vinnie back to the smoky pub, with Isaac hunched over the keyboard. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled as the rippling music flowed through him. He closed his eyes, saw Isaac wringing his effortless beauty out of the old piano, talking as he played: ‘This is a bit much for you, Vinnie.’

  ‘I’d love to be able to play it.’

  ‘Maybe one day. It’s Schubert.’

  ‘Schubert,’ Vinnie said aloud now.

  Mrs Greenwood’s eyes lit up in surprise. ‘You know it, then? Schubert?’

  ‘Um – I’ve heard it before.’

  ‘It’s Miss Armstrong’s gramophone. These days it’s all she plays. Her records.’ Mrs Greenwood ladled stew into a bowl. ‘Come, sit down and eat. Poor soul, you look absolutely done in. This is rabbit,’ she went on. ‘You like rabbit?’

  ‘Thanks, I eat anything,’ Vinnie said.

  Mrs Greenwood put the bowl on the table, then laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and squeezed. After that she left him in peace to listen to the music.

  This place will do, he thought. Even better if I can hear that gramophone properly. It turned the local kids’ insults into nothing; pushed away that picture of Ralph DuPreis at the head of the queue and the sad little girl with the dirty hair. It buried the hurt of being the last puppy in the pet shop. With music like that, I don’t care about any of them.

  ***

  Vinnie’s bedroom had a chair, a small table with a light on it, and a narrow bed. Before saying good-night, he had thanked Mrs Greenwood for being kind. There would be a lot of ‘thank you for this’, ‘much obliged for that’. It would come, he knew.

  He lay in the darkness, listening for night sounds, but there was nothing: no dustbin lids being knocked off, cats yowling or happy, drunken merchant seamen singing their way back to their ships in the London docks. He thought about the city. Is Hitler giving them hell tonight, raining bombs down on everybody?

  He slept.

  Kathleen and Joey rose early, washed their faces and went downstairs. Mrs Watney was at the stove, pushing something to and fro in a black frying pan. She gave an unsmiling nod. ‘So you’re up, then?’

  ‘Yes, good morning, Mrs Watney,’ Kathleen said.

  ‘Breakfast’s just coming. Dennis already had his and went to work. You’ll have to wait till this after-noon to meet him.’

  ‘That’ll be nice.’

  At tea the night before, Dennis hadn’t been there. Mrs Watney explained he’d had to do a late shift at the railway yard.

  Breakfast was an omelette made out of dried egg powder from a khaki packet. There was also toast and strawberry jam.

  ‘Go easy on that,’ Mrs Watney warned. ‘Jam’ll be rationed soon.’ Then she turned and busied herself at the sink.

  During the night in the darkened room upstairs, Kathleen had told Joey a story she’d made up about a gnome who was so tall none of the other gnomes wanted anything to do with him. Halfway through she’d realised he was asleep, and in that lonely moment a tear had come. I’m not going to cry, she’d told herself. I’ll save it for when something really terrible happens, and hope it never does.

  In the morning she’d woken suddenly, with no idea where she was. Then everything had come horribly rushing back. But thousands of evacuees were waking to that same feeling: a whole Euston Station full of them, and more.

  At the breakfast table, Joey whispered to Kathleen, ‘Go on, ask her.’

  Mrs Watney noticed. ‘What is this you’re to ask me?’

  Kathleen said, ‘Mrs Watney, do you think Joey could listen to Children’s Hour? On the wireless?’

  ‘It’s on the BBC,’ Joey added. ‘Five o’clock.’ />
  ‘Don’t see why not,’ Mrs Watney agreed; then she said, ‘Oh, but wait. The accumulator needs charging. Dennis could hardly hear his football on Saturday.’

  The accumulator turned out to be a square glass battery with two connections on top. If Joey and Kathleen liked, Mrs Watney said, they could take it to the garage and exchange it for a charged one. Kathleen jumped at the chance to get out of the house, and maybe find Vinnie and Dobbs.

  Mrs Watney said, ‘Don’t forget you have to write to your mother. And leave the envelope open so I can pop a note in before I post it.’

  They took the accumulator to the garage. Joey said, as they walked, ‘If the envelope’s open, she’ll read what we write. We can’t tell Mum how horrible it is.’

  ‘Let’s pretend it’s not.’

  Joey shrugged. ‘So I’ll use a secret code. Tell Mum that way.’

  Kathleen shook her head. ‘Now it means I’ll have to read your letter.’

  The man in Netterfold’s garage was cheerful and gave them a fully charged accumulator. ‘That’ll be tuppence,’ he said.

  Kathleen paid. It was for a good cause.

  ***

  Vinnie had a breakfast egg in the kitchen. A real one, not dried egg powder – a country egg with a brown shell. It was soft-boiled, so he could dip fingers of toast into it. There was tea as well, with honey to sweeten it and spread on the rest of his toast. Mrs Greenwood asked if he had a ration book.

  ‘I never got one,’ Vinnie explained. ‘Sorry.’ Aunty Vera kept it. She’s probably still using it.

  ‘I’ll see to it,’ Mrs Greenwood said. ‘And what about your clothes?’

  ‘My place was bombed,’ Vinnie told her. ‘They never gave me a chance to find my stuff.’

  Mrs Greenwood shook her head, then bustled. ‘There’s some sort of emergency committee. I’ll ask at the council.’

  Vinnie said, ‘Can I do some work around the place, Mrs Greenwood?’

  ‘It’s up to you, Vinnie. There’s firewood to chop, and the garden needs attention. Mrs Hall’s boy, Henry, used to come in, but he delivers telegrams now.’