The Kingdom by the Sea

And lastly he had gone to the newsagents, and bought two boxes of matches, because he thought they were sure to come in useful, and the biggest newspaper he could see. Not that he cared a damn about the news, but certain movements in his tummy told him he was going to need a newspaper tonight after dark. God, life was all food going in one end, and out the other.

But for the moment, he was content. Full of Cornish pasty, watching the dog chew at his big bone, and watching the girls go past in their bathing costumes through the pair of dark glasses he’d thought on to buy at the chemist’s.

The chip-shop man saw him coming. Long before he got to the shop, Harry could see the bald head peering and bobbing maliciously above the heads of the customers. He had spent half of the day manufacturing lies for the chip-shop man. He tied up Don properly by his leash to the lamp-post, and pushed boldly into the shop.

“Ha,” said the man nastily. “Here’s our little war hero, back for his nightly share of our fish and chips. I see you’ve managed to wash your face for once.”

Harry joined the queue quietly, saying nothing. All the people in the shop were total strangers, so he knew he couldn’t look for any help there.

“’E’s bombed out, you know,” said the man nastily. “Where you billeted then?”

Harry was ready. “Priory Road.” It was the longest road in Tynemouth, and not very posh.

“What number?” asked the man. Harry was ready for that, too.

“Dunno,” he said, “but it’s about half-way down, on the right-hand side. Gotta green door and big white sea shells in the garden.” Half the houses in Priory Road had big white sea shells in the garden.

“What’s the lady’s name – that you’re billeted on?”

“It’s a funny long name – we just have to call her Auntie.”

There was a titter in the queue. Harry felt they were turning on to his side. The woman at the front of the queue said sharply, “C’mon, Jim. I haven’t got all night to stand here, you know. Our Ted’s got to go back from leave.”

The man gave Harry another nasty glare, but started shovelling chips again. Meanwhile, the other women in the queue began discussing which woman with a funny long name had a house in Priory Road, with a green door and sea shells in the front garden.

“It’s not Peggy Molyneaux, is it? I hadn’t heard she had anybody billeted on her …”

Harry was glad he’d picked the longest road in Tynemouth. But he knew with dreadful certainty that this was the last time he could use the chip shop. The gossip would be all over the village by tomorrow night. And what would he and Don do for food then? The woman asked him more questions about his landlady, and he almost ran out of answers, and sweated.

But at last it was his turn.

“Six sausage an’ chips, please.” He might as well grab what food he could.

“Six?” yelled the man. “Are ye feeding a bloody regiment or something?”

“The landlady wants some an’ all. An’ for her husband.” Harry’s lips quivered. He felt a traitorous tear gathering in his eye, and simply let himself cry. It had worked last night …

“Leave the poor bairn alone, for God’s sake,” said a woman. “What’s he ever done to you, Jim?” And there was a murmur from the queue. Harry didn’t think anybody liked the man, really.

But it was a marvellous relief to get out into the cool air of Front Street, with the packet burning against his chest. His tears dried up instantly, and he untied Don and walked down to the sea amazed at himself. His dad had always taught him never to lie, and that only babies cried. But tears and lies seemed to be all that worked now.

In the night, the dog stirred against his side. Stirred and growled deep in its throat. Harry was awake in a flash. Was there someone prowling the dark beach? Somebody after Mam’s precious attaché case? He listened hard, and heard nothing. Then the dog growled again.

And Harry heard.

Vroomah, vroomah, vroomah. Out over the sea. The Jerry bombers were back. And there seemed to be a lot of them.

Then, on the Castle cliffs overhead, the siren went.

The dog whimpered, once, and then went mad, trying to scrabble its way out from under the boat, casting huge sheets of sand over the blankets, and into Harry’s eyes in the dark. His eyes were agony.

But he knew he must stop the dog. Dogs went crazy in air raids. Ran about the streets howling, upsetting people. Ran blind, ran anywhere. Don could run off and get lost forever.

He grabbed for Don’s collar, and felt around desperately for the leash, and got it on him, just as the dog wriggled out from under the boat. Harry let himself be dragged after him, bumping his head so he saw stars. There was nothing else he could do.

Outside, it was as light as day. Three searchlights, three great bars of blue light reached outwards from the Castle into the sky above the sea, slowly waving and feeling like fingers for the approaching Jerries. More searchlights waved around from South Shields across the river. Little bits of mist or cloud drifted through the beams, like cigarette smoke. By their light, Harry could see every detail of the beach. And be seen. There’d be a warden round in a minute, yelling at him to get under cover. And the bombers were closer, and the guns would be opening fire overhead. Where to run to?

But the dog just ran, and Harry had to run with him, tripping over bits of wood half-buried in the sand and once falling flat and being dragged along. He hadn’t a clue where he was going. But Don had. Suddenly they were up against the beginning of the pier, the massive granite pier. And set into the pier, huge arches. And inside the arches, massive granite blocks were stored, for repairing the pier when the waves broke it. Don went straight into a dark gap between the blocks, and dragged Harry after him. And then Don stopped, and Harry realised he was in the best air-raid shelter in Tynemouth. Six feet of granite over his head, and solid granite on three sides, and on the fourth a parapet of huge blocks, just low enough to peer over.

“Good dog,” he whispered. “Good dog,” and fondled the dog’s ears. Don was shaking so hard he made Harry shake in sympathy. Harry remembered something his dad had said about dogs in air raids. They suffered terribly with their ears, because they could hear ten times better than people. The sounds were ten times as loud to them. He pulled off one of his jumpers, folded down the dog’s ears, and wrapped the jumper round them hard. The dog seemed to like it; it snuggled in.

And then the Castle guns fired, and it was like the end of the world. The world cracked apart four times; Harry’s head seemed to crack apart four times. His ears hurt, physically hurt. Like earache.

He remembered the government issuing ear-plugs. Everyone had laughed at the idea of the little rubber ear­plugs, on their bit of string, that you carried in your gas-mask case, if you still carried your gas-mask case, which hardly anyone ever did these days, only kids with soppy mams.

He wished he had them now. But … something … hold the dog with one hand, scrabble in his pockets with the other. Bit of paper; bus ticket. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed it frantically. When it was soggy enough, he worked it into two lumps, and pushed one piece into each of his ears.

The Castle guns fired again. But it was much better now; only half as bad. Didn’t hurt. He shoved the bits of bus ticket even further in. Then peered with interest over his high bulwark. He’d never been out in an air raid before; he’d always been cowering down in the shelter, like a rat in a hole. Mam hadn’t even let him look out of the shelter door, unless it had been quiet for ages.

He thought it was the grandest firework display he’d ever seen. High above, great chains of blue lights hung, lighting the whole sky. They swung; they drifted across each other like swathes of stars. These must be the “chandeliers” Dad had talked about; dropped by the bombers to light their target.

The ack-ack men at South Shields must be trying to shoot them out. Long streams of tracer shells, yellow and red, climbed slowly into the sky from behind South Shields pier. They made the blue lights rock and swing harder, but they didn’t put them out. Then the Castle guns fired again, making Don flinch; making a pattern of four bright stars in the sky that burnt holes in your eyes, so that wherever you looked afterwards, there were four black holes in what you looked at. And it all smelt like Guy Fawkes night.

It was … grand. Grand like a thunderstorm, if you were out in it, and not afraid of being hit by lightning. It made Harry feel huge, as huge as the sky.

And then he saw the German bomber, clear and sharp as a minnow in a pond, caught in a cone of no less than five searchlights. It wriggled, glistened like a minnow, a minnow with a shiny nose and tiny crosses on its wings, a minnow trying to escape out of a giant hand. But the giant hand of light held it, twist and turn though it might. Then every gun on Tyneside seemed to be firing at it. Again and again, it vanished in the scatters of blinding flashes. Harry’s eyes seemed as full of black holes as Mam’s collander. But when the flashes had gone, the tiny plane was still there, twisting and turning and getting bigger. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere any more, just wriggling, trying to escape.

And then there was a streak of fire. Then a comet, a shooting star of brilliant yellow, heading out to sea, down to the sea. Down and down and down, brighter and brighter and brighter, better than a two-shilling rocket. And then it burst into a brilliant shower of blue lights, that were caught by the wind and drifted and went out, all but one that glowed all the way down to the dark water.

The guns were silent, so you heard the hiss it made as it hit the sea; heard the people cheering, all the way over the dark water, in South Shields.

He hugged the dog. “We got one, boy, we got one.” It was better than North Shields football team scoring a goal. In the silence, the dog thumped its tail against his leg, and licked his hand.

And then the next wave of Jerries came vroomahing in.

It was dawn before the Jerries stopped coming, and the all-clear went. He and the dog came out of their deep, deep shelter. The dog stretched, fore and aft, sniffed an upturned boat and peed against it. Harry, walking on what felt like two wooden legs, watched it with great fondness. Don was wonderful. He’d heard the bombers coming, long before the siren went; he’d found the best shelter. Above all, he’d been close to the dog, to its furry warm bulk. The dog had been closer to him than Mam had been, let alone Dad.

He thought he and the dog made a pretty good team. He sat on his upturned boat, and watched the dog sniffing around the beach. Nice to sit in peace and quiet, listening to the little waves plopping on the sand, after the great storm of the night.

But today, Sunday, they had to move on. Before someone noticed him on the beach on Monday morning, and caught him as a truant from school. Before the food ran out. Before the dog went through again what he had gone through last night.

Away. Up the coast. To where there were no people to bother them. To where there was plenty of food.

He knew he wasn’t thinking very straight. He needed more sleep. He called to the dog, lured it to him with its share of cold sausage and chips. Then got it through the hole, under the boat, and in a little while they were both sound asleep.

Chapter Five

He started awake, and pushed back the blankets. He was very hot, and there was a small of melting tar, and, worst of all, voices all around him. And the dog was gone.

He must have slept too long. It was Sunday afternoon. On Sunday morning, the beach was empty, except for a few men walking their dogs. But on Sunday afternoons in summer, even in wartime, it filled up with families out for the day. People were sitting with their backs against his boat, blocking out the strip of sunshine. Until they went home, he was trapped. And they usually didn’t go home till about six o’clock.

And where was the dog? He could see the place where it had scrabbled out. How long had it been gone? Where had it gone? Had it gone for good? There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t scramble out after it, in full view of everybody. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the people sitting round; it was more a terrible embarrassment at making a fool of himself, of being stared at when he was all dirty and sweaty and peculiar-looking. And his Cousin Elsie, or somebody else he knew might be sitting there.

All he could do was push back the blankets and lie there, and munch another soggy mass of cold chips, and worry about the dog. It was more horrible than being in the shelter during an air raid.

It was the voices that soothed him in the end. The family sitting against the boat, at least, were strangers. A mum and dad, three kids and a granny. They had rough accents; they must come from further up the river. Somewhere like Byker. When the granny said, “I’ve lived in Byker all me life, and I’ve never seen anything like that in all my born days,” it cheered him slightly that he had guessed right.

He sort of lost himself in the life of the family. Bossy mum, idle dad.

“Why don’t you play cricket with the bairns, George? They’re bored stiff!”

“Why, there’s no room to play cricket, hinny. There’s not room to swing a cat. Don Bradman hisself couldn’t play cricket here.”

“Well, do something with them!”

“Woman, Aah slave six days a week at the North Eastern Marine, an’ even God rested on the seventh day.”

“There’s our Edith throwing sand in Sammy’s eyes again. Stop it, our Edith, or you’ll feel the back o’ my hand. Cannit ye get them an ice-cream, George? Aah could do wi’ one meself.”

“Ice-cream? Hinny, there’s a war on.”

“There’s a feller at the top o’ the bank …”

“Bloody Italian black marketeer … you don’t know what they put in them things. Vaseline an’ hair-cream an’ anything else they can lay their hands on … would poison a dog.”

“Mam, tell our Edith to stop it.”

“Our Edith …!”

It was like going back into another life.

And soon there was some good news.

“Mam, this dog’s lost. It’s starving. Look, it’s putting its paw up, asking. It’s begging.”

“Gerraway, Alsatians can’t beg. They’re too big.”

“It’s hungry. Give it that piece of pie Gran dropped in the sand.”

“Oh, here y’are then. Anything for peace. D’you think that dog is lost, George?”

Harry tensed up with terror.

“No, it’s not lost, hinny. It’s gorra collar. It’s just on the cadge. I’ve watched it cadging off people for the last hour. It’s doin’ all right. Whoever starves, it won’t be that dog. C’mere, boy. Have a sandwich. Best spam.”

“Get it away. I don’t like Alsatians, they’re savage.”

“’Bout as savage as a new-born lamb. Look, he’s rolling over to have his tummy tickled.”

Harry listened for a little while longer to the dog cadging food round the beach. It struck him that Don had more talents than he’d imagined. Don was indeed doing all right.

Then he dozed off again. He could just sleep and sleep these days. Must be the heat.

He was wakened by the dog’s wet nose, nudging him forcefully in the neck. He came to with a start, worrying about the people. But there was silence outside. When he peered out, the beach was empty. It was later than he wanted it to be. The sun was already dropping towards the cliff top. Night was coming, and with the night, the bombers.

He packed up quickly, shaking the sand out of the blankets. But he took time to wash his face and hands with the anti-flea soap. You had to have a clean face. The water freshened him up. He was busting to go to the toilet, but he held out till he got to the toilet by the bus station.

There was a bus in, going up the coast to Blyth. And he found he had plenty of loose change in his pocket. The driver and conductor had got out, to have a smoke under the clock-tower so he had time to get Don nicely settled, on a tight lead before the conductor dimped his fag and came aboard.

“Where to, young feller-me-lad?”

“Single. All the way,” Harry said vaguely.

“Fourpence.” The man handed him his ticket, and eyed his luggage. “Been out for the day?”

“On the beach. Camping.”

“By God, it’s grand to be young.” The man left him and went to tend the passengers upstairs.

The bus started, and swung out round the clock-tower. Harry’s heart gave a sudden lurch. He was glad to get away from the bombers, and from anybody who might recognise him. But this was home, for the last time. There was Bertorelli’s, where they’d come down on a Saturday night for an ice-cream, even in the depths of winter, and then back home by bus, to hear “Inspector Hornleigh Investigates” on the radio.

He was off for pastures new. He swallowed several times, and took a firm grip on Don’s collar.

Chapter Six

“This is as far as we go, sonny Jim,” said the conductor. “Unless you want to go back to Tynemouth. Where d’you live?”

God, adults got suspicious so quickly. Harry had been dozing, but he had the sense to say, “Across the river.” That was all he knew about Blyth; that it had a river. It was ten miles from home, and he’d never been there in his life.

“You’ll just catch the last ferry,” said the conductor and nodded his head instinctively in a certain direction. Harry grabbed his stuff, all of a shake, and set off in the direction the man had nodded. As he set off, he heard the conductor say to the driver, “Some folks have no sense, letting their bairns wander round this time of night wi’ the air raids and all.”

It was late. The bus seemed to have taken forever. The sun was gone; it was getting dark. He began to hurry. There was no point spending the night here. Blyth was bombed as often as Tynemouth; there were a lot of gaps in the streets of houses. And his mam said Blyth was full of roughs and drunks. He knew he was heading for the river all right, because of the towering dockside cranes. But the river was the roughest part of any town.

And as he turned down the ferry landing, he met two roughs. Men in dirty caps. He didn’t like the way they stopped, and watched him approach. The way they filled the whole footpath, blocking his way.

“By, that’s a grand dog ye’ve got there. A grand expensive dog.”

“Worth a pretty penny, that dog. Where did ye find him? Is he lost?”

“What ye got in the case, laddy? Show us what you got in the case! We’re policemen.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.