by Milly Adams
And as he always did, Geordie pursed his lips in a silent whistle, which meant ‘quite enough of that’, but he wasn’t as angry as he made out. Saul smiled as the rabbits and turnips in his hessian sack jolted on his back. Tom, Geordie and he were a team, just like the girls.
At Howard House Joe was by Mr Dobbo’s side, with Rover at the other. They stood with their backs to the ha-ha, and Mr Dobbo handed Joe the ball.
‘Right you are, Joe. Throw the ball, and I’ll tell Rover to stay at me heel. We need to make sure he don’t run after it, till I’m ready for him to do that. You got it?’
Joe turned sideways, as Uncle Henry had shown him when he taught him to bowl at a wicket. He preferred to take a run but Mr Dobbo had said to do it standing for the first time. Mr Dobbo said, ‘You ready, then, Joe?’
‘I am, Mr Dobbo.’
‘In your own time, then.’
Joe drew in a breath, and then waited for a count of three to steady himself, which is what Uncle Thomas had said when he had the cricket bowling lesson. ‘Three,’ he whispered, and from a standing point, he threw the ball overarm. It went miles, he thought, pride making him smile. Mr Dobbo pressed his shoulder. ‘Good throw,’ he murmured. His voice changed as Rover stirred when the ball bounced on to the lawn, and then bounced again. ‘Stay, Rover.’
When the ball lay still Joe waited, motionless, hardly breathing. Would Rover wait too? He saw Uncle Henry coming along the ha-ha now, but Joe wouldn’t call, wouldn’t wave, because this was dog training, and important. Now Mr Dobbo shouted, but not really. He just spoke sort of loud but with a fierce grating sound which must make Rover feel nervous, because it made Joe feel it. ‘Fetch, Rover.’
The dog, an Alsatian, bounded forward, his legs pumping the ground, going so fast Joe knew he could never keep up with him, ever. The dog almost skidded on the grass as he snatched up the ball, turning. Mr Dobbo yelled again, ‘Stand, Rover.’
Rover did, then on Mr Dobbo’s command, he walked back, drool hanging from his mouth, and laid the ball at Joe’s feet, for that’s what Mr Dobbo told him to do.
Joe didn’t want to pick the ball up, because it was slimy from the drool, and there were even strands of the stuff on it. Mr Dobbo said, ‘The drool won’t hurt you, and it’s his gift, and I have told Rover to bring it to you. Perhaps you really should pick it up.’
Uncle Henry had come close now, but he stopped. Joe knew he was watching and listening. Mr Dobbo said nothing, just waited. Rover sat, his mouth hanging open, watching – and was he pleading? That’s what it looked like, that there were pleading in his dark eyes. Joe bent and picked up the ball, and Rover’s tail wagged, thwacking into the ground. Joe looked up at Mr Dobbo. ‘You is right, Mr Dobbo. I were rude and Rover doesn’t deserve rudeness. He do look after me, so he do. Should I throw it again?’
Mr Dobbo was looking at him, strange, just for a moment, and his eyes had the same look that Rover’s had, that sort of pleading, but then it were gone. Uncle Henry said, ‘You’re doing a good job all round Dobbo, replacing Barry, I must say. So glad you came, it’s good for the boy to have someone to show him all sorts of things that perhaps us old codgers are out of the way of. Anyway, there’s a cuppa in the kitchen for you both – if you can spare the time from your training, that is?’
Joe checked with Mr Dobbo. ‘We could give Rover a biscuit, Mr Dobbo. Mrs B’s are quite sugary from the honey she puts in them.’
He watched as Mr Dobbo seemed to be thinking, then he scratched Rover behind the ears. ‘Best not, Joe. We’ll get on round the perimeter, but don’t let yours, and your uncle’s, get cold.’
Mr Dobbo half saluted them both and called Rover to heel, moving on. Uncle Henry tousled Joe’s hair. ‘He’s a good man, Joe. You could do worse than take a look at Dobbo as an example of how to be.’
‘He be a bit like our Saul, and you, Uncle,’ said Joe as they headed off back to the house. Then Joe remembered Mr Dobbo’s ball, stopped, and called after his bodyguard, ‘I’ll throw the ball back, Mr Dobbo. You can do more training with Rover, and p’raps you’d let me help tomorrow after school, too. Or another time anyway.’
He threw it, Mr Dobbo caught it, tossed it into the air, caught it again, called, ‘We’ll do that, Joe,’ then walked on.
Uncle Henry said, as though he was thinking aloud, ‘Dobbo would be a useful man for the cricket team, Joe.’
‘He would, Uncle Henry, but Rover would be better.’ They laughed together, then hurried across the lawn, round the side of the house to the kitchen.
Chapter 24
It’s a week later and Leon’s various plans are coming along
Leon Arness, commonly known as Lionel Harkness, checked through the plans at his desk. He liked the roll of the words ’Leon Arness, commonly known as Lionel Harkness’. He could hear a tune when he said it. Right clever it were. Course, he owed it to Manny, not that he’d said that when the accountant had come the first time to do the books. The old bloke had thought he was a mate of Norton’s who’d taken over the business. The old man was a bit deaf, and though Leon had said Arness, the old beggar writ down Harkness. Old Manny had even got Leon wrong and writ Lionel at t’top of his invoice. He can’t ‘ave checked through Norton’s old invoices.
It were a sign. New name, new beginning.
Dougie knocked. Leon called, ‘Do be getting in ’ere, don’t ’ang about.’ He checked his watch, and then the school timetable in the right hand corner of the A3 sheet of paper; the plan of the school and nearby roads took up the rest.
Leon stabbed at the playground. ‘Dobbo got himself sorted? Built up a pretence of being a pal?’
‘He ’as, boss.’
Leon stabbed at the road.
‘We needs car, second snatcher and driver. Yer can vouch fer ’em? No point in grabbing t’boy and ’aving no getaway.’
Dougie nodded again. Leon muttered, ‘So ’ow’s Dobbo and the dog getting to the school?’
‘Sid’ll pick him up, drop him along the road before lunch playtime so he can be strolling past. Sid’ll move the car up when Dobbo lets the dog get started. Then it should all go smooth, like.’
Leon looked up. ‘It better do. Then yer’ll bring ’im ’ere. I be takin’ up the back stairs to me flat.’ Leon checked his watch again. ‘Sid’s be down there, now?’
Dougie nodded. ‘He called in from a phone box. Got another hour or so, then he’ll pick up Dobbo, who got off the morning shift and ain’t due on at Howard House again till three. He won’t turn up, course. They should be ’ere by six at the latest, boss.’
Leon rolled up the plan. Beneath it was another. ‘Yer sure we ain’t got no more of Mario’s men skulking about being barmen, flappin’ their ears?’
Dougie flushed. ‘Sorry about that, boss.’
Leon grunted at the great clod; he was all muscle and no brain. What were the point of having someone steer the butty on tow if they pitched it in t’bank? For a moment he was surprised, cos he didn’t often think of the cut. Maybe it was because he was getting his boy back and the last time he’d seen him were on the butty. Family was family, and Joe would learn t’follow orders and would know better than to steer crooked. He grinned because Angelo had taken ’em for mugs, serving drinks and shaking cocktails, but they’d fed him what they wanted Mario to know, before Leon had done for him, good and proper. Leon said, ‘It’ll all go well, I can feel it in me bones.’
Dougie grinned at this. ‘When do we make our move on Mario?’
‘Fer me to be knowing, not yer. We’ve most of t’men we need, and some o’ the dosh, but when we moves in we can get that quick enough. Tells me ’ow it goes.’
He flicked a finger to the door. Dougie hesitated. ‘Goes?’
Leon growled, ‘On m’boy, what else?’
Joe had swapped one of his cheese sandwiches for a jam one at school lunchtime. Martin’s mum made good jam, and Mrs B said it was because she ran the WI jam-making for the war effort. He supposed that with the Allies chasing
the Germans back to Berlin the war would end, except for the Japs, so would jam and oranges be in the shops again? He hoped so, because the girls talked about oranges a lot so he’d buy them one.
He asked Martin, ‘What’s an orange taste like?’
Martin was looking inside his sandwich at the cheese, and smiling. Eddie sat at the end of the table, and leaned forward. ‘Me mam says they’s sweet, and juicy, but they ’ave a skin with dimples. My auntie says the dimples is like my mam’s thighs.’
Martin pulled a face. ‘What’s thighs? Something you put on the sideboard, like a vase?’
The boys didn’t know. The hubbub grew as the children relaxed over their sandwiches. Tommy at the other end of the table had sausage sandwiches, and the smell made Joe’s mouth water, but Tommy’s dad was a butcher, and anyway, sometimes he shared. Joe would share the bacon from the pigs which rooted around in the copse, but he didn’t want to be there when one was killed. He said, ‘Mr Dobbo’s dog Rover can’t get the ’ang o’ the pigs. He barks his ’ead off, but Mr Dobbo makes him sit. He’s my mate, is Mr Dobbo. We been training Rover together.’
Martin had taken a bite of his sandwich, and asked, crumbs spattering across the table, ‘’Ow’s t’other one who kept an eye out, the one who were ’it by the motorbike before Dobbo came?’
‘Barry still be in ’ospital though we thought he were to die. Auntie Joyce and Pamela and Mrs B took me to see him, took ’im a bread and butter pudding, but he pulled a face. Mrs B were right annoyed and wanted t’bring it home for us, but ’e were sorry, and said it were lovely. So Auntie Joyce and Auntie Pamela teased him and said it would put ’airs on his chest. Or that’s what they said. I haven’t got hairs on my chest and I have bread and butter pudding.’
Martin shook his head, ‘Neither have I.’ No one round the table had, and they asked Miss Watson if she had and she went red and told them not to be cheeky. The boys looked at one another, and shrugged. Grown-ups weren’t ‘alf daft, they whispered.
As Miss Watson rang the bell for the end of lunchtime, they smoothed out their greaseproof paper, tipping the crumbs back into the OXO tins in which they carried their sandwiches, and tucked them under their arms to line up for playtime. At a word from Miss Watson they rushed to their pegs, tucked their tins on the benches and slung on coats, found their marbles and tore out of the boys’ entrance into the playground. As they ran into the cold, Joe laughed and laughed, because he was just so happy. This morning his ma had written to say she understood, and would never drag him away, but would like to come and see him.
The aunties and uncles had thought that a good idea as a first step, and Uncle Henry had said that he’d go to Southall to bring her and Granfer back, if the girls would pick her up in the boats.
Joe, Martin and Eddie chalked a circle, moved back, and knelt in their short trousers, the asphalt ‘crumbs’ digging into their knees. Joe wondered what Uncle Henry meant as a ‘first step’. He’d ask him when he caught the bus home, as it was Uncle Henry’s day. It was Martin’s turn to start and he flicked his dobber, the largest of his marbles, into the others which were collected in the centre. The dobber split them up, ramming several out of the ring. ‘Ha,’ Martin shouted, collecting up the outcast marbles and his dobber. ‘I’ve got four. Your turn, Eddie.’
Joe watched Eddie carefully because he was a wizard at a marble flick, but Eddie was so fast he could never see how he did it. He wondered if Mr Dobbo would know. He’d ask. Eddie’s dobber whopped into the remaining clump of marbles and they skidded one into another, and then out of the ring, Eddie’s dobber skidding with them.
‘Belter,’ yelled Joe, looking despairingly at the few scattered marbles left. He tried to decide whether to aim for the one nearest the edge of the circle, but then his dobber’d come out too, or to go for the three together and get a spin on the marble, and whack them all outside but the dobber might stay inside the circle. He was just ready to flick when he heard a frantic barking, and a man, shouting above the laughter and chat of the children in the playground. He tried to concentrate, but just as he was about to flick he was nudged from behind, knocking his dobber from his hand. It crawled to a stop, nowhere near any other marble. He spun round, but then laughed. It was Rover, and he tried to lick Joe’s face. ‘Hey, what you doing ’ere, boy?’
Rover was pulling at his sleeve, turning round, scattering the marbles with his paws, and some children were screaming, and running away. Joe called, ‘It’s only be Rover, he won’t hurt you. He does what Mr Dobbo says.’
He looked around and there was his bodyguard by the open school gate. How queer, cos it was always kept shut. Miss Watson was storming over to Joe, her handbell at the ready. Joe thought she were going to hit Rover with it, and stood up, grabbed Rover’s collar, and scurried off to the school gate as Mr Dobbo called, and beckoned Joe. ‘Bring him back, lad. I was out walkin’ and ’e saw you, dashed in, and now he’s confused. Rover, come.’
Rover pulled Joe to the gate, while Miss Watson called to him to return immediately, holding the clapper to keep the bell quiet. Joe was really proud as he walked Rover, and Martin trotted along a bit behind, saying, ‘Coo, you knows what yer doing, Joe.’
It was then Miss Watson rang her handbell for end of playtime, and the children, including Martin, ran back to the boys’ and girls’ entrances, while Joe took Rover right up to Mr Dobbo, who smiled. ‘That’s the way, lad. Right up close, eh, so he don’t run off again.’
Just along the road from Mr Dobbo, a car was parked with its engine running. It was a black one with a sort of statue on the bonnet. He turned, and Martin were looking at him while Miss Watson was calling the two of them to hurry, and ringing her bell like billy-o.
The back door of the car was swinging open. Someone called, ‘Grab the boy, for Gawd’s sake, Dobbo, what the ’ell are you ’anging about for? What’ll his dad say if we bugger this up?’
Joe hesitated, suddenly thinking of the cut, of his da, of the fists. He stepped back, his legs wobbly, looking from Mr Dobbo, to Rover, to the car, all of them looking strange, suddenly. Big and dark and strange, and he couldn’t work it out. Martin called, ‘Come on, Joe. You can’t go without your uncles at Howard House saying it’s all right. We’ll get ticked off; come on, Miss Watson’s going bonkers with the bell.’
Joe was backing away now, wanting to be with Martin, playing marbles, wanting Eddie and Miss Watson, wanting his uncles and aunties. He saw Mr Dobbo’s hand point to him, and now Rover leapt, grabbed his arm, hurting him. Joe lost his balance, Miss Watson shouted, ‘Leave that boy alone.’
Joe turned, but Mr Dobbo grabbed him by his collar, dragging him through the gateposts towards the car. Joe called, ‘Help me. Please, please someone.’ He was lifted – it was so quick but he called, ‘Mr Dobbo, what yer doin’? I don’t like me da, and what about me ma? Don’t let me da hurt me ma.’ He was thrown into the back seat, and hit it with a thump, banging into someone else who was bony, and who grabbed him. Rover was leaping in after him, but Joe could see the children racing through the playground towards the gate, with Miss Watson in the lead, ringing her bell, ringing and ringing it. He wanted to be with them. He leaned forward, pushing against Rover, who growled. The bony man hugged him; it hurt. The man yelled, ‘Keep still, you little bleeder.’ The man smelt of drink. It were like his da used to smell before he hit him and his ma.
Mr Dobbo leapt into the front seat but the car was already moving and the door swung on his arm, and he swore. Mr Dobbo hadn’t sworn before, he’d been kind. Joe heard the screams of the children, and the screeching of the tyres, as something was put over his head: a cloth. It stank of sweat. He vomited. Sick filled the sack. It was cheese and jam. The man cursed and dragged the cloth off, winding down the window, throwing it out. Rover was sitting on the back seat, growling at him, but Joe had thought Rover were his friend, like Mr Dobbo. Joe said to the back of Mr Dobbo’s head, ‘I thought you be my friend, Mr Dobbo. I thought you wanted to keep me safe.’
>
The taste of sick was still in his mouth as the bony man tied something round his eyes. It was dark again. Joe said again, ‘I thought you’d keep me safe, and now I’m not, and I’ve wet myself and I don’t know what yous doing.’ He was crying, and you didn’t cry, not in front of grown-ups, or your friends.
Mr Dobbo muttered something, and the driver said, ‘Don’t go all soft on the lad. ’E won’t thank you for it, Dobbo. Just think how it’s goin’ ter be when he’s back with his dad, and ’e’s the boss’s son. Shut yer gob and do as yer told, that’s all we ’ave to do, or it’ll be the worse for us. Yer know what ’e’s like. ’E wants his family back, so that’s that.’
Joe fought the bony man holding him now, and shouted, ‘You leave my ma alone, you ’ear me.’
The minute he said those words he sank back down into the darkness, because he knew he had made a worse mistake than he’d ever made in his life. He didn’t think his da knew his ma was alive, and now he’d told these men. He started to really cry then, until there were no tears left, and the blind-fold was wet. He could smell his wee, and the man who held him could too, and cursed him.
Chapter 25
That same day the hunt for Joe begins
After lunch at Howard House, Rogers shook out the tablecloth in the yard and headed for the steps past Henry and Thomas who were hanging out the washing. In the kitchen the women were laughing because they’d had a look and it was all higgledy-piggledy, but as Mrs B said, ‘They do it deliberately so we don’t ask ’em again, but we will, because many hands make light work.’
He folded the tablecloth and returned it to the drawer in the kitchen table as the women finished in the scullery. Lunch was only a vegetable flan but the amount of washing-up seemed ridiculous. Why did they have to use so many dishes? Then there’d be a cup of tea that would have to be washed, and he was on sink duty. The telephone rang. He shambled off. Who was it this time? Perhaps the butcher about the pig? ‘Howard House resid—’
