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And then the dog stood up, and shook itself, and whined, watching him with those warm eyes. It wanted something from him.
“What is it, boy?” The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t spoken to anybody since he ran away from the wardens. “What do you want, boy?”
The dog whined again, and then nudged with its long nose at the bundle of blankets, sniffing. Then it turned, and nosed at the attaché case, pushing it through the sand.
The dog was hungry. And he had nothing to give it, nothing in the world. And suddenly he felt terribly hungry himself.
It threw him into a panic of helplessness. It was getting dark as well, and he had nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. He put his face in his hands, and rocked with misery. And then he remembered his father’s voice saying, angrily, “Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think, son, think.”
It was the boat he noticed first; the boat he had been leaning against. The owner had turned it upside-down, to stop the rain getting in, like they always did. But that had been a long time ago. This boat hadn’t been used for years; the black, tarry paint was splitting, peeling, blistering. There was a half-inch crack, where the stern met the side. That meant …
Safety. A hiding place. A roof for the night, if it started to rain. There was a gap on this side, between the boat and the sand. Only six inches, but he could make it bigger. He began to scrabble at the sand with his hands. The sand came easily; it was soft and dry. Soon he managed to wriggle through the hole he had made. Inside, it was dark, apart from the cracks in the stern, where some light came in. But it smelt sweetly of the sea and old tar, and dry wood. The dog wriggled through to join him, licking his face, sure it was a game. He pushed it away and reached out and dragged in the bundle of blankets and the attaché case. There was plenty of room; it was a big boat, a fishing boat. He squatted by the entrance, like a Mohican in his wigwam. He’d solved one problem, and it gave him strength.
Now, food. He racked his brains. Then remembered there had always been a big fish and chip shop in Front Street. It wouldn’t sell much fish now, because the trawlers were away on convoy-escort. But it still sold chips and sausages cooked in batter. All the fish and chip shops did.
But … money.
He searched desperately through his pockets for odd pennies and ha’pennies.
And his fingers closed on the milled edge of a big fat two-shilling piece. Yesterday had been Thursday, and Dad had given him his week’s pocket-money as usual. It all seemed so very far away, but there was the big fat florin in his hand. He rubbed the edge in the dim light, to make sure it was real, not just a penny.
He took a deep breath, and wormed out through the hole again, followed by the dog. He was in a hurry now; his stomach was sort of dissolving into juice at the thought of the battered sausages. He didn’t like the idea of leaving his blankets and the precious attaché case behind, but he couldn’t carry them and the chips as well. Besides, they would make him look conspicuous. They would have to take their chance, as Dad always said, when he and Harry planted out tiny seedlings, watered them, and left them for the night. Harry shook his head savagely, to shake away the memory, and the sting of hot tears that pricked at his eyes suddenly. He smoothed back the sand to conceal the hole he had dug, and set off for Front Street, the dog running ahead and marking the lamp-posts as if this was an ordinary evening stroll along the sea front.
Even a hundred yards away, the breeze carried the appetising smell to his nostrils. The shop wasn’t shut then; he felt full of triumph. There was a crowd of people in the shop and they hadn’t drawn the blackout curtains yet.
He pushed open the door, and the dog nosed past him eagerly, nostrils working. The owner of the shop, a tall bald man in a long greasy white apron, looked over the heads of his customers and saw them, and Harry instantly knew he was a very nasty man indeed, even before he opened his mouth.
“Get that dirty great animal out of here! This is a clean shop, a food shop!”
Covered with confusion, blushing furiously, Harry grabbed the dog’s collar, and dragged him out. He pushed the dog’s bottom to the pavement, and shouted, “Sit! Sit!” The dog looked at him trustingly, wagging his tail, and Harry dived back into the shop again, before the dog changed his mind. He joined the back of the queue which was about six people long.
“Filthy great beast,” said the man, to no one in particular. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.” He shovelled great mounds of golden chips into newspaper and said to the woman helping him, “More batter, Ada,” equally nastily.
Harry heard the shop door open again, and the next second, Don was beside him, leaping up at the glass counter with eager paws, and leaving dirty scratchmarks on the glass.
“I told you, get that bloody animal out of here! I won’t tell you again!”
Harry grabbed Don a second time. He could feel tears starting to gather in his eyes. He hauled him out, as two more people passed him to join the queue inside. He had lost his place in the queue. And every time somebody else came, Don would come in with them, and he’d always lose his place in the queue, and never get served.
He looked round desperately. There was a lamp-post, with two sandbags attached, for use against incendiary bombs. They were tied to the lamp-post with thick string … Harry hauled Don over, undid the string, and slipped it through Don’s collar, tied a knot, and fled back into the shop.
“Messing with our sandbags now?” said the man savagely. He seemed to have eyes everywhere but on his own business. “Don’t live round here, do you?”
Harry’s heart sank. Not living round here was important; he mightn’t get served at all now. Shopkeepers looked after their own, these days of rationing.
“And it’s a while since your face saw soap an’ water. Or yer hair a comb. Where yer from? The Ridges?”
The Ridges was the slummiest council estate in the whole town; it was a downright insult, to anyone who came from the Balkwell.
“No. From the Balkwell,” he said stoutly.
“Well, you get back to the Balkwell chip shop, sonny Jim. We’ve only enough chips for Tynemouth people in this shop. An’ take that damned dog with you. Stolen him, have you? He looks a bit too grand for the likes of you. I’ve a mind to phone for the poliss.”
The tears were streaming down Harry’s face by that time. One of the women in the queue said, “Steady on, Jim. The bairn’s upset. What’s the matter, son?”
Something gave way inside Harry. It was all too much. He said, “I’ve been bombed out.”
He heard a murmur of sympathy from the assembled customers, so he added, “Me dad was killed.” He said it like he was hitting the man with a big hammer.
There was a terrible hush in the shop. Everyone was looking at him, pale and open-mouthed. Then the woman said, “Serve him first, Jim. He can have my turn. What do you want, son?”
Harry had only meant to have one portion, to share with the dog. But the wild triumph was too sweet. The dog would have his own; and they’d have one each for breakfast in the morning, too. And he was thirsty.
“Four sausage and chips. And a bottle of Tizer.”
Viciously, the man scooped up the portions. Harry thought he tried to make them mingy portions, but all the customers were watching him. So he suddenly doubled-up the number of chips, far more than he should have given. Then he banged the big newspaper parcel on the counter, and the bottle of Tizer with it.
“Two shillings and fourpence!”
Harry gazed in horror at the two-shilling piece in his hand.
He’d over-reached himself with a vengeance, and he hadn’t another penny on him. He stared around panic-stricken at the staring faces.
Then the woman took his two shillings off him, added fourpence of her own, and gave it to the man, saying, “Run along, son. Yer mam could do with those chips while they’re hot.”
“Ta,” he said, staring at her plump kindly face in wonder. Then he was out of the shop, with the burning packet of chips against his chest and the Tizer bottle on the pavement as he untied Don.
He walked back to the boat in a whirl. So much had happened so quickly. But he’d gone to get chips, and he’d done it. Made a terrible mess of mistakes, but he’d done it.
He spread the dog’s share on the sand, on its newspaper, so the dog wouldn’t eat any sand by mistake. The dog wolfed the sausage first, then all the chips, and nosed the folds of paper for every last crumb of batter. Then came to scrounge off Harry. It must have been really starving. Well, now it was full, and he himself had seen to that. He felt obscurely proud. The dog was his, and he’d fed it. And found it a place to sleep.
He stretched his legs out and lay against the boat, relaxed, and swigged Tizer. He couldn’t give the dog any Tizer. He hadn’t a bowl. But the dog loped off to where a little freshwater stream trickled down the sand from the Castle cliff and lapped noisily. Another problem solved.
He watched the little waves coming into the beach from the darkening river. Little lines of whiteness coming out of the dark. This time last night they’d all been sitting down to supper, Mam, Dad, Dulcie …
He let himself cry then. Somehow he could afford to, with his belly full, and his new home against his back, and his new friend the dog snuffling at his raincoat, still looking for crumbs of batter. He cried quite a long time, but he cried very quietly, not wanting anyone to hear him, in case they came across to find out what was the matter. The dog licked his tears with a huge wet tongue, and he hugged it to him.
And yet, even as he was crying, he was thinking. Hard. So many things going round in his mind, like a squirrel in a cage.
He must keep himself clean and tidy somehow. A dirty face got you into trouble. He must comb his hair. He must keep his shoes polished and his raincoat clean. And he must get a leash for Don. And he must stay near fresh water to drink … And …
He reached for Don’s collar in the dark, twisted off the medal and threw it as far down the beach as he could. That medal was Don’s death-sentence. The police caught dogs who’d lost their owners in air raids, and had them put down on an electrified plate at the police station. They dampened the dog’s coat, then they electrocuted it. That was what Dad had said had happened to their old dog, when he got too old. He said they did it to some lovely dogs, it was a shame.
Don was his dog now.
As the last tinge of light faded, far out over the sea, he dug under the boat again, crawled in and called the dog in after him. It wouldn’t do to be on the beach after dark. People might ask questions.
He spread the blankets neatly, wishing he had a candle to see by. That was something else he’d have to lay his hands on.
He had the sand-hole neatly filled in again when his need to pee caught him in the groin like a knife. Swearing to himself, he dug the hole again, and got outside only just in time. He crawled back, thinking he had an awful lot to learn. He’d always had Mam until now, saying do this, do that, till you could scream. Now he had to say do this, do that, to himself.
Still, he was snug. He had enough blankets to make two into a pillow and give one to the dog. Except the dog snuggled up close to him, and he let it in.
He gave one deep sigh, and was asleep. All night his breathing lay hidden under the greater breathing of the sea. He wakened once, to hear rain patting on the boat. But it only made things cosier.
Chapter Three
The dog wakened him by licking his face. He had no idea what time it was, but all along the gap between the boat and the sand, the sun was shining. The dog dug its way out with great enthusiasm, showering him with sand, bringing him fully awake. He scrambled out after it.
It was a glorious morning. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon. Little wavelets crept up the beach, gentle as a kiss. The air was still cool, the sun had just risen over the sea, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.
His first thought was that he must get clean. He stripped to his underpants, shivering, and walked out into the wavelets. He remembered learning at school that you could get yourself clean with sand, and picked up a handful of liquid sand and scrubbed his hands. He did it three times, and it worked. All the grime vanished, leaving his hands pale and wrinkled with the cold. He got another handful and scrubbed his face. The sand stung, but in a pleasant way. His mouth filled with a salty taste, but that was all right. He remembered also from school that you could clean your teeth with salt; and he cleaned them with a bit of sand and his finger, and spat out. Then he scrubbed himself with sand all over. He felt great, really alive. He wanted to swim, but he didn’t want to get his underpants soaking. Then he thought that the sun would dry them, as it had once dried his swimming-costume, and plunged in regardless. The sea was much warmer than the air. He swam and swam. He loved swimming. He imagined he was a fish, without a care in the world.
Then he looked up, and saw the dog’s face swimming in front of him. The dog also looked terribly happy, and was carrying a crooked black stick in his mouth. It dropped it in the water in front of him. It wanted it thrown. He tried to stand up in the water, found he was too far out when his head went under, and scrambled back to the shore in a flurry of arms and legs and foam. But he wasn’t really worried. This was the Haven, and his dad had always said that the Haven was safe, no undertow, no currents. Safest place in Northumberland.
When he found his footing, the dog brought him the stick again, and he spent ages throwing it out to sea. He thought the dog would never tire but, eventually, it ran up the beach, dived under the boat, and emerged with a newspaper packet in its mouth. Last night’s spare sausage and chips …
He yelled at it, suddenly furious. He was in charge; the dog was getting above itself. He tried to grab the packet from its mouth, but it wouldn’t let go, shaking its head to throw off his hand, and backing away all the time. Beside himself with rage, he hit it with the crooked black stick that he still held in his other hand. It closed its eyes, but it wouldn’t let go. He hit it harder, and it growled deep in its throat.
Perhaps it was lucky that the stick broke. He put both hands to the packet of newspaper and pulled with all his might. The newspaper tore on the dog’s teeth, and he had it. The dog made a snatch for it, but he held it high in the air.
The dog leapt and knocked him flat. But he kept hold of the packet, clutching it into his armpit as he fell, like a rugby ball at school. The dog kept nosing in, but he twisted and turned. Several times, he felt the dog’s naked teeth touch his skin; but the dog didn’t bite him.
At last they stopped, and glared at each other. He couldn’t read the look on the dog’s face, but he wasn’t scared of dogs. He would show it who was boss.
“Sit, boy, sit!”
It sat, at last, tail swishing vigorously. He began to unwrap the packet and it dived in again. He hit it on the nose, and it backed off.
The battle seemed to go on forever, but at last the dog learned to sit still, until he had unwrapped the whole packet and laid out its share. Then it dived in, without waiting for the word of command.
He sat back with a sigh, and ate his own. It was a victory of sorts. He ate his sausage, which tasted good. He thought the chips would be awful, but they tasted good as well. When he was finished he looked down at his bare stomach. It was bulging – but it felt good and solid and cheering. And his underpants, though sandy, were nearly dry. And now the sun touched warmly on his back, and he came out in goose-pimples.
He looked all round, cautiously. There was still nobody about, though there was smoke coming from the chimney of one of the coastguard cottages on the headland. He thought he had time for a quick explore, along the tide-line, where you always found the interesting things.
The dog thought that was great. It began pouncing on all the patches of seaweed, killing them with its feet, dive-bombing them, then throwing them high in the air. He tried calling it to heel, as he had seen men do when they were walking their dogs on the beach.
It ignored him. He made up his mind to work on it. Its disobedience could get them both into trouble. It was then that he found the lump of soaking rope. He tried it for strength, stamping on one end, and pulling the other end with both hands. It seemed pretty strong, and it was one yard long, with frayed ends. He knew there was no point in calling the dog, but he waved the rope enticingly, and the dog came, and he grabbed its collar, and slipped the rope through. The dog promptly took off along the beach, dragging him after it. It was stronger than he was, and heavier. All he could do was hang on. The dog made terrible noises, like it was choking itself to death. But he hung on. He had to win. For both their sakes. It was a good dog, but only young. It had to learn.
Finally, it got tired of strangling itself, and walked quietly by his side. It was then he found the other useful thing. A washing-day ladle, like Mam used. About eight inches across, rusty, but it had no holes in it. It would do to give the dog water in. He came back to the boat full of triumph, and got dressed. As he did, two more pennies fell out of his trouser pocket. He searched every pocket after that, and ended up with threepence ha’penny.
He stared at it, lying in the pale palm of his hand, and despair fell on him, without warning, out of a clear blue sky, like a collapsing house. What good was threepence ha’penny? It wouldn’t even buy them a meal to share tonight. Only chips. And when the chips were gone, what then? And the next day, and the next, getting hungrier and hungrier. He could only get food by going to Cousin Elsie’s; and he knew what Uncle George would do with the dog. Straight down to the police station.
He stared at the sand for a long, long time. The dog, puzzled, impatient, leapt up and put its paws on his shoulders and looked at him trustingly. He could have died of agony.
And then he remembered his father’s voice again.
“Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think!”
And immediately, he realised he did have some money. In the Trustee Savings Bank. Seventeen pounds, ten shillings. All the money from all the birthdays and Christmases that Mam had made him save when he wanted to go out and spend it. Saving up for a rainy day, she had called it, when he raged and pleaded with her.
But where was the bank book?
In the attaché case, of course.
He dived in under the boat, and clicked open the case with trembling hands. There was a bundle of bank books, held together neatly by an elastic band. Dad’s on top, then Mam’s, then his. He opened it. It said, in neat curling writing, seventeen pounds, ten shillings. And he knew how to get it out; you only had to fill in a form, that was all. He had enough to keep himself and the dog for months. Wild excitement blew through him like a gale. He must get it! Now!
Then his eye drifted round the rest of the case; over the other precious things it contained. Dad’s best wristwatch, the one he only used for special occasions, in case it got scratched. The bright pink insurance books. A wedding photograph in a small silver frame, with Mam and Dad looking smooth, smiling and young. His own photograph in school uniform, from when he first went to the grammar school; a neat bundle of school reports. How proud of him they’d been! Tears pricked again, so he rushed on, being practical. The family ration books … a bar of Mam’s pongy special toilet soap, still in its paper wrapper. The scent wafted up to his nostrils … and he felt suddenly terribly guilty, as if he was burgling a church. He was never allowed to look inside the attaché case; it was private to Mam and Dad.
He took his own bank book and then slammed the case shut and clicked in the fasteners loudly. Well, as long as he carried the attaché case, Mam and Dad would still be with him. Like the Ark of the Covenant that the children of Israel carried all the way to the Promised Land.
To soothe himself, he carefully folded the blankets into a neat heap, then came out of the boat and smoothed down the sand to hide the entrance, and sat playing with the dog’s ears till his breathing came back to normal.
Not a moment too soon. There was a man coming out of the coastguard cottage, the one with the smoking chimney. Walking down the beach towards him. Harry could tell from the way he walked that he wasn’t a bad bloke. He walked slow and steady and contented, puffing on his pipe, stopping to look at things and touch them. Only a bit bossy, perhaps. As if it was his place.
“Good morning, young feller-me-lad! You’re the early bird that catches the worm!”
“Been swimming,” said Harry.
“So Aah noticed, while Aah was shaving. Said to the missus there was a young feller-me-lad, having a grand time wi’ his dog, on a Saturday morning early. Grand dog!” He bent and patted it. “What’s his name?”
“Don.”
The man looked for a name-medal on the collar and didn’t find any. “Dog could do with a combing. Sand won’t do his coat no good.”
“I always comb him when I get home.” Harry was amazed how neatly the lie popped out. Then he said, “What time is it, mister?”
“Half-past eight,” said the man, pulling out a pocket watch. “Better be on me way up yonder.” He pointed to the Coastguard Station on the cliff. “Just thought Aah’d have a word wi’ you, seeing you was having so much fun wi’ your dog. Only,” he added, “you could do wi’ a pair of bathing-trunks, instead of bathing in yer underpants. We’ll have young girls down here, later on.” He glanced around. “A towel wouldn’t do you any harm, either.” Harry glanced at him, suddenly hunched-up, wary. But the man gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Aah didn’t tell me mam all Aah was doing when Aah was young either.” And he was gone, leaving only a fragrant whiff of his tobacco smoke.
Chapter Four
Three hours later, Harry lay back on the sand by the boat, closed his eyes, and let his mind stop whirling. What a terrible trip! He was never, never, never going up into the town again. Tommy Dodds had seen him, and Audrey Henry’s mother, and he’d only missed running into Cousin Elsie by diving up a back alley like a shot rabbit. He still wasn’t sure she hadn’t seen him. And the terrible wait in the bank, while the man counted out his money three times before he gave it to him, and he worried about Don tied to a lamp-post outside … when he’d got out, he took the bus straight back to Tynemouth. Thank God he’d had that threepence ha’penny, or he’d have had to give the conductor a ten-shilling note for the fare. And the conductor had still fussed about how sandy the dog was, and how it was making a mess of his bus … It had been stupid to go up into the town on a Saturday when everybody was out shopping. If he went on making stupid mistakes like that, he’d get caught for certain.
But Tynemouth village had been better. Nobody knew him in Tynemouth. And he’d had a good shopping-spree, ten-shilling notes or no ten-shilling notes. There were still things to buy that were not on the rations. The pet-shop woman had been nice and friendly. Sold him a leash for the dog, and a steel curry-comb, and a big bag of dog biscuits. And some anti-flea soap, that would do for them both. She had pursed her lips over the note, but he’d said, “It’s me birthday present,” and she had told him he was a kind boy, spending all his birthday present on his dog. Then he’d gone to the butcher’s, and got some bones for the dog, and looked at the Cornish pasties so hungrily that the man had said, with a grin, “Do you want one? You can’t live on doggy-bones, a growing lad like you.”