Patricia St John Series

by Patricia St John

  “I can’t see the bed,” he shouted down. “Where is it?”

  “I show you,” shrieked Ram. He clambered up the ladder like a monkey and pitched himself through the window after the man. Holding his breath and with eyes shut, he guided him to the bed where Tara lay, huddled under the bedclothes, limp and helpless. The man picked her up and slung her over his shoulder. Now that the window was open the smoke was less dense.

  “Get her into the fresh air first,” gasped the man, clambering out. “Now come on, son, keep it up. You can take a breath now.”

  They all seemed to slide down the ladder together and collapse on the ground. Eager hands took Tara and laid her on a rug on the pavement. Ram was covered with blood for he had fallen onto the broken glass, and his face and hands were badly cut, but he hardly seemed to notice. He took some great breaths of fresh air and struggled over to where Tara lay, with a little group of women kneeling round her. One of them was giving her artificial respiration.

  “She alive?” gasped Ram.

  “I don’t know, dear,” said Francis’s mother, putting her arms round the sooty, bloody little figure. “I think so—I hope so. The engine and the ambulance should be here by now, but of course there was that delay in phoning.”

  “It was wicked, messing up the phone booth like that,” murmured another woman. “May have cost the kiddie her life.”

  At that point they heard the blessed sound, the high, sirenlike wails of the fire engine and the ambulance, and everybody stood back as the men rushed into action.

  But Francis hardly noticed the fire fighters. His eyes were fixed on the limp little figure that was Tara, and just as they were lifting her into the ambulance and fixing up the oxygen mask, her parents came walking down the street from the bus stop.

  Francis’s mother ran to meet them and steered Tara’s dazed mother in beside the stretcher. “You’d better take Ram too,” she said. “He’s dreadfully cut.”

  She turned to the father, who was weeping and beating his breast. “Who has a car,” she asked, “and could take Tara’s dad to the hospital?”

  Several volunteers stepped forward, eager to help, and as the bewildered man climbed into a car, she laid her hand on his shoulder. “When you come back,” she said, “come straight to our house for a meal. Twenty-three Graham Avenue. We’ll expect you any time of the day or night.”

  “What’ll Dad say about them coming?” asked Francis as they walked home with the ladder. “He doesn’t like immigrants.”

  “He can say what he likes,” said his mother shortly. “That was a very, very brave little boy, Francis. You ought to be proud to have such a friend.”

  They put the ladder away and made themselves tea and sandwiches at the kitchen table. They had stayed to watch the firemen get the blaze under control, and it was quite late. The little girls were asleep, and Dad was still out. Francis, shaken more deeply than he realized by his part in what had happened, sat very close to his mother.

  “How did it start, Francis?” she asked, sipping her tea.

  “I don’t know. We were at the fish-and-chip shop. I think Ram pushed the sofa too near the gas fire, ’cause we were playing a game. Mum, d’you think Tara’s dead?”

  “I don’t think so. Her heart was beating. Pray God, she’ll be all right!”

  “What good does praying do, Mum?”

  “I’m not sure. I used to think it helped—nothing seems to help anymore. I wish you went to Sunday school, Francis—I wish you could all grow up good—I don’t know what to do!”

  Her tears were falling into her teacup, and Francis flung his arms round her and clung to her. Without knowing it, he had learned many new things that night: the price of destruction, the beauty of courage, the value of life. And now, held close in his mother’s arms, he suddenly knew where he really belonged. “I’ll try to be good,” he whispered, “but Wendy does pinch first.”

  Tyke’s rule was tottering.

  7

  In Trouble

  But of course it was not quite as easy as that, because Tyke had no intention of letting go. Francis in his power might be an asset, but Francis loose was dangerous. He knew far too much. So when he did not turn up on Sunday afternoon, Tyke wanted to know why.

  “Hi, you, come behind the gym,” he ordered on Monday morning and stalked ahead with the younger boy trotting behind. When they got there, Tyke turned and seized Francis’s wrists rather painfully and glared down at him. He noticed that the answering look of adoration was no longer there.

  “How come you weren’t there last night?” he demanded.

  “My dad wouldn’t let me,” lied Francis, but then he realized that excuse would not do every week, so he blurted out, “You know, Tyke—I mean, Isaacs—I don’t want to bash up any more phone booths. When Ram’s house caught on fire, Tara, his little sister, got trapped upstairs, and I couldn’t phone ’cause it was bashed up. I had to run home, and the fire engine didn’t come for ages, and Tara nearly died. You wouldn’t like your little sister to die, would you, ’cause the phone booth was bashed up?”

  Tyke, being the only child of a broken marriage, shrugged his shoulders, but he had the sense to realize that he had gone too fast. If he wanted to make this boy like himself, he would have to go more gently. He spoke quite kindly.

  “Right,” he said. “No more phone booths! You come along next Sunday, and we’ll have some nice quiet fun, just the four of us. And if you tell—”

  “I’ll never tell, Tyke—I mean, Isaacs—cross my heart, I’ll never tell anyone.”

  Tyke narrowed his eyes and repeated his threats in a low voice, and Francis nodded and ran off. But the child had changed, and Tyke felt a queer sense of loss. He smoked a cigarette, and when Spotty came to join him, he told him to get out because he was sick to death of him.

  But Francis was happy, happier than he had been for a long time. Tara had not died. She had probably been cuddled down so far under the bedclothes that she had been able to survive, and she had come out of the hospital on Saturday none the worse for her adventure. Ram’s cuts were healing, and he and his parents had come for a meal, and Dad had been quite nice to them and had driven them all to the Immigrant Center where they were to stay until the city renovated their front room. Fortunately the actual fire had gone no farther. The sofa had smoldered for a long time before catching fire.

  Francis had even been praised and thanked for fetching the ladder, which he did not deserve in the least, and he felt closer to his mother than he had for a long time. Since that night in the kitchen he had really tried to be helpful and had almost decided to write Tyke a note saying he was not allowed out after dark anymore, when something happened to upset everything again.

  It was a cold, wet Saturday morning, and Mum had persuaded Dad to take her shopping, and Francis and the girls had spent a fairly peaceful morning indoors, playing and watching television. Wendy and Debby cleaned out their dolls’ house, and Francis was drawing. He had a whole folder of drawings, done mostly with felt tips, of football games, armies, planes, and dinosaurs, but he had never shown them to anyone. He suddenly thought his mother might like to see them, and he decided to spread them all out on the kitchen table, like an art exhibition, and show them to her when she came in.

  But his parents were very late, and when they walked in the back door, it was clear that Dad was in a raging temper and Mum was crying. Dad took one look at the kitchen table.

  “What on earth is all that trash doing on the table?” he barked. “Let’s have some lunch. You could have set the table, couldn’t you, Francis, instead of making all that mess?”

  Francis went very red and dug in his heels. “It isn’t trash,” he said obstinately. “It’s my pictures. I put ’em there to show ’em to Mum.”

  He turned eagerly to his mother, but she was not looking. “Just do what your dad tells you,” she said wearily. “Must you start arguing the moment we get into the house?” She went up to her room and slammed the door, and they ha
d to have lunch without her, Dad muttering angrily all the time, Wendy frightened, sulky, and inclined to pinch, and Debby crying for Mummy. There was really nothing to do but to join the gang again.

  It was not at all difficult to slip out on Sunday, and nothing much happened. They sat in the cold, dreary little shed, telling jokes that Francis did not entirely understand, and drank from a black bottle. But they would not give Francis any. “It would go to your head, see,” said Tyke, “and you’d spit everything out. Besides, you’d stink.”

  Not till after sunset, when the light had been lit, did the real quiet fun begin. Sharp knives were passed round, and Francis was told to run to the end of the street again. There was a car parked halfway up.

  “But you’re not going to bash up the phone booth, are you?” asked Francis anxiously. “They’ve fixed it again.”

  “No, no, no, nothing like that,” soothed Tyke, and Spotty laughed gleefully. “I told you, just a little bit of fun. You do what you’re told, and we’ll give you a knife next time and let you run with us. Bonkers can stand on guard.”

  Francis reached his sentry post and peeped to right and left, but all was quiet. He stepped under the lamp and waved, and the three boys set off as though running a race. Only when they reached the car did they pause, lift their knives and systematically pierce each tire. Then they sped on to separate at the T-junction.

  But a fast car was approaching. It swerved around the corner and jammed on its brakes to avoid hitting the three flying figures. They stood for a second, caught in the headlights, Bonkers still waving his knife. Then they took to their heels, leaving Francis paralyzed under the street lamp, unable to move for fear. It had never occurred to him that his stepfather might have a standing appointment with the fat, yellow-haired lady every Sunday night at seven thirty, but unfortunately, that was the case. He was out of the car in a second and seized Francis by the wrists almost as roughly as Tyke had done.

  “So this is what you’re up to,” he said, pushing Francis into the car. “That boy had a knife. You tell me instantly what you are all doing.”

  “Nuffing,” sniffed Francis. “I was just standing there and they ran past.”

  “Rot!” said his stepfather. “Your sort doesn’t just stand there in the dark for nothing. Either you tell me or I shall report what I’ve seen to the police. They’ll make you talk fast enough. There was a phone booth wrecked here last week, and some windows broken in the next street. I suppose you know all about that too.”

  But Francis, remembering Tyke’s threats, said nothing, and they sat in silence for some minutes, not far from the yellow-haired lady’s house. Then a door opened farther down the street. A man came out and jumped into the parked car. He pressed on his accelerator, and there was a strange, dragging sound. He stopped, got out, and examined his tires. Then he walked deliberately towards Dad’s car.

  “All four tires punctured,” he said heavily. “You didn’t happen to see anyone, did you? I wasn’t long in the house, and they were all right when I arrived.”

  “I nearly knocked over three boys,” said Dad, “and I believe this young stepson of mine knows something about it. One of ’em had a knife, and I’m going to get the police onto this because you aren’t the first. Just give me your name and address. There’s a garage just around the corner. I’m sorry about your tires.”

  Dad was getting impatient and was probably anxious about keeping the yellow-haired girl waiting. He suddenly turned the car and drove back home at high speed. He pulled Francis out and pushed him into the kitchen.

  “Out with some gang, slashing tires,” he shouted at his startled wife. “I’m going to get the police onto it tomorrow—I’m fed up with the whole business. Can’t you even look after your own kid?”

  He was gone, roaring down the street again, and his mother sent Francis upstairs because she did not know what else to do. But later, when the girls were in bed, she came up and knelt down beside him.

  “Francis, tell me what you’ve been doing!”

  He longed to fling his arms around her neck and tell her everything, but he was too afraid of Tyke. Tyke was going to jump out from behind some bushes and beat him up if he told.

  “I didn’t do nothing, honest, Mum. I just stood at the corner of the street, and they ran past me.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “I dunno. Three boys.”

  “But what street, Francis?”

  “The street where Ram lives. Dad came round the corner again.”

  “The same street where you saw him last time?”

  “Yep.”

  “The same house?”

  “I dunno. He saw me and stopped.”

  “No one came out?”

  “No. Mum, I didn’t do nothing wrong. I’m awfully hungry. Couldn’t I have some supper?”

  She went away and came back with a supper tray. He sat up and ate a hearty meal, while she sat beside him, worrying. There was no doubt that he had turned into a shocking little liar, and she did not know whether to believe him or not.

  A policewoman called next day, but she could not get anything out of him either. She asked him a lot of questions, while his dad sat listening, but he had a vague feeling that she liked him better than she did his stepfather.

  “I was just standing, and they ran past me,” he kept repeating quite calmly. He was far more afraid of Tyke than he was of the policewoman.

  “But what were you doing, just standing?” she asked.

  “Just going for a little walk.”

  “Where to?”

  “Nowhere. Just playing round. They suddenly ran past me.”

  “Where from?”

  Francis hesitated and knew that she was watching him very carefully indeed.

  “Up the road.”

  “From the end of the road?”

  “Yep—I think so. I dunno.”

  The policewoman made a little note on her pad.

  “What did they look like?”

  “Big. One had a big black beard.”

  “That’s a lie,” said his stepfather. “They were just a pack of kids, not more than fourteen or fifteen at the most.”

  Francis fell silent. He had quite forgotten that his stepfather had seen them too.

  “Well,” said the policewoman at last, turning away from Francis, “there’s nothing to prove that he was involved. He may be speaking the truth or he may not. But it’s up to you, Mr. West. Know what he’s doing all the time and keep him in after dark for his own sake as well as for other people’s. There’s a very rough gang about, and we’re on their tracks. Just see to it that he doesn’t get mixed up with them. He’s only ten; you should be able to control him.”

  “That’s his mother’s job,” replied Dad angrily, and he repeated all that the policewoman had said to his wife, with a little more added on. She listened, deeply troubled, knowing that while she grieved and pined over her husband, unable to give her mind to anything else, something was going very wrong indeed with her young son.

  8

  Flight

  For the next three days things went from bad to worse at home. The fat yellow-haired girl became a recognized person whom Mum and Dad quarreled about, and she had a name: Gloria. Dad came home late and appeared only at breakfast. Mum went about looking like a ghost, with dark circles under her eyes, and did not seem able to listen to what anyone said. She was always lying down with headaches or crying, and Wendy and Debby did exactly what they liked. In Francis’s view, they became more and more cheeky. Outside, the spring surged to its fulfillment, and the yards were gay with daffodils, tulips, and blossoms, but inside the house seemed to get colder and drearier every day.

  And then came a terrible morning when Mum did not come down to breakfast at all, and Dad gave them their meal and seemed to want to hustle them all off to school in a great hurry. He always dropped off Wendy and Debby on his way to work, but Francis went on the bus and saw no reason to start just after eight.

  “It isn�
��t time,” he argued. “I shall get there too early. Besides, I haven’t said good-bye to Mum.”

  “Well, you can’t say good-bye to her today. She’s not well enough. I want you out of the house before I leave, see?”

  “Why? And anyhow, it’s too early for Wendy and Deb. You needn’t be at work till nine.”

  “Look here, Francis, will you stop arguing and go! I’m not going to work today. I’m coming back to take Mum to the doctor. She’s very unwell, so don’t make things more difficult than they are. You’re holding up everything as usual, so get out!”

  He got out in a hurry because he did not want Dad to see his tears welling up and overflowing. It was all Dad’s fault, he thought, that Mum was ill; it all had something vaguely to do with Gloria. He was wretched and inattentive at school and got a bad conduct mark, but he did not care. He wanted to go home, but when he rushed into the house at four o’clock there were old Mrs. Glengarry washing dishes at the sink and Wendy and Debby, quiet and well-behaved, cutting out paper dolls’ clothes at the kitchen table.

  “Where’s Mum?” said Francis abruptly.

  “I’m afraid your mum’s not well and has to stay in the hospital for a time, dear,” said Mrs. Glengarry kindly. “I just came over to give you your tea, till your Dad comes at six. Now you’ve come, we’ll put the kettle on, and Wendy will show me where everything is and help set the table.”

  “Me too,” said Debby, who usually never wanted to help.

  The girls were all graciousness and helpfulness, and tea passed pleasantly. Mrs. Glengarry had made them a cake and told them comfortable stories about her cats that made Wendy and Debby laugh. But Francis felt desolate. Halfway through tea he pushed back his plate and said loudly, “Mrs. Glengarry, how long will Mum have to stay in the hospital? And when can I go and see her? Could I go on the bus now? I know the way.”