What Child Is This (Kindle Single)

by Rhys Bowen

  “Don’t talk so bloody stupid.” His voice was now sharp with fear. “Get back here and we’ll find a corner where we can park ourselves for the night. In the morning we’ll see if one of my mates at the docks can take us in.”

  He led her down the platform, stepping over people already lying down, having claimed their space. The earlier arrivals had brought blankets and pillows with them. Some even had a little spirit stove to make a cup of tea. Jack looked up and down the platform, but every inch seemed to have been taken.

  “Let’s try the up platform. Might be a bit clearer through there.”

  Again Maggie allowed herself to be led through a dark passageway, where their footsteps echoed back from the tiled walls, to a similar platform, equally filled with bunk beds and recumbent people. This lot seemed a bit merrier. A group was sitting together. One of the men looked up as they approached.

  “Cheer up, love,” he said. “It’s Christmas Eve. Come on. Have a nip of sherry with us. Do you a power of good.” He held out a chipped china beaker to her.

  “No, thank you.” Maggie shrank away, grasping Jack’s hand.

  “What’s the matter? My drink not good enough for you?” He started to get to his feet, swaying a little unsteadily.

  “Hang on, mate.” Jack stepped between them. “Her home’s just gone up in flames. She’s in no mood to be merry with anyone.”

  “Sorry, missus. Didn’t mean to offend. Just trying to keep our chins up, right?”

  Maggie nodded, but couldn’t find words.

  Just then a voice on a megaphone drowned out the sounds of the crowd. “Attention, platform one. Train arriving. Stand back from the edge. Let people off and mind the gap.”

  There came the gust of wind that preceded the train. It swirled up newspapers and scarves as the train came thundering into the station.

  “Last train for the night, going west,” the station employee called. “If you’ve a mind for Christmas in the West End, now’s your chance. Dancing at the Dorchester? Dinner at the Ritz?”

  A collective chuckle ran up and down the platform. Doors opened. The carriage in front of Maggie was almost empty and nobody got out. At the last moment, she yanked her hand free of her husband’s and jumped aboard. He flung himself in just as the doors were closing, and the train rumbled off into the night.

  Chapter 2

  What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” Jack demanded, still gasping from the effort, his voice shrill with fear. Maggie had collapsed on to a seat and sat staring straight ahead, her face like a wax dummy’s.

  “Have you gone stark staring mad? You’re on a train with no ticket and no idea where it’s going . . .”

  She shuddered. “Sorry, Jack. I don’t know what came over me. I just knew I had to get out of there. I couldn’t take it another second. All those people and the smells and knowing I was buried underground. I would have gone mad if you’d made me stay there.”

  “Sorry, love.” He sat beside her and covered her shaking hands with his own. “It’s been a bit of a bugger tonight, hasn’t it?”

  “A bit of a bugger?” She fought back hysteria. “Jack, we’ve lost everything. We’ve nowhere to go.”

  “You’ve still got me, old girl,” he said gently. “We’ll get through this. But where in God’s name do you think you’re going now?”

  “I suppose it’s too late to go down to my sister’s in the country?”

  “Don’t be daft! There won’t be trains tonight. Besides, we don’t have no money, Maggie.” He started to put his hand into his trouser pocket, then grimaced. “You know what? I left my pay packet on the table beside the bed when I changed my trousers when I got home. All we have is the coins in my pocket and whatever you’ve got in that handbag of yours.”

  “Only a couple of shillings, Jack. You didn’t give me this week’s housekeeping money yet, and I spent a little extra on a present for you.”

  He stared at her with hopeless eyes. “My Christmas pay packet with the bonus will have gone up with the house. And we can’t get our hands on our little savings account until the banks open after the holidays. Besides, we can’t risk going down to the country. I have to show up at work whether I’ve a place to live or not. Supplies have to be unloaded. I can’t be too far from the docks or I’ll lose my job. And I need you with me, Maggie.” He squeezed her hand now. “I need you. I can’t get through this alone. A wife’s place is with her husband. Isn’t it?”

  Eventually she nodded. “I suppose it is. But you just tell me where our place is in this world. We don’t have no place, do we?” Her voice rose as she spoke.

  Jack looked around the carriage. A couple of tired and dispirited people, maybe returning after long shifts or with nowhere warm to go on Christmas Eve, were staring at them.

  “Keep your voice down, Maggie,” he whispered. “Now you just tell me. Where do you plan on getting off this ruddy train? Or are you just going to ride to the end of the line? Don’t think you can come back again, mind, because the bloke said it was the last train of the night.”

  She was staring straight ahead again, that look of blank hopelessness on her face. “I just want somewhere where I feel safe. Open air, like it was at home. Where no building is going to fall on me. They’ve got big parks up west, don’t they? Remember when we went to Hyde Park to hear that band concert?”

  Jack stared up at the Tube map on the carriage wall. “This is the Central Line. Let’s see. I think you’re in luck. Marble Arch. That’s Hyde Park, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I don’t really care which park.” She sounded defeated. “Just somewhere away from houses, where nobody’s going to bomb me for a night.”

  The train rattled through the darkness. As they passed through the stations of the city, there were fewer people on the platforms. Tired air-raid wardens got on at St Paul’s.

  “We’ll be lucky if they can save the cathedral tonight,” one said to the other.

  By the time they approached Oxford Street, the carriage filled with a different type of traveller. These were revellers who were returning from dinner out or a Christmas Eve celebration. Maggie stared at them as if they were creatures from another planet.

  “Here we are. Marble Arch.” Jack grabbed her hand and led her from the train. There was no one taking tickets, so they trudged up the escalator that had shut down for the night, then the final flights of steps leading to the street. Although Oxford Street was in darkness, the fires burning across the East End illuminated the sky with an eerie pink glow. The air smelled of smoke, stinging their eyes. The occasional searchlight still strafed the clouds.

  “Which way is the park?” Jack looked around, trying to get his bearings.

  “What street are we on?” Maggie asked.

  “Oxford, I think. Hang on. Here comes somebody.” A well-dressed couple, she in a long fur coat and he in a dark overcoat with a scarf around his neck, came towards them. The woman was giggling.

  “I don’t know what was in that punch, but it certainly had a kick to it, didn’t it?” she said.

  Jack stepped out in front of them. “Which way to the park, mate?” he asked.

  The young man recoiled, then pointed to the right. “Aren’t you a little old for that sort of thing?” he asked. The girl giggled and they walked on.

  “You’d better sober up before your mother sees you, Gwendolyn,” Jack and Maggie heard him say.

  “What did he mean?” Maggie asked as they started walking.

  “He thinks we wanted to make love. I suppose that’s what people do in parks at night.”

  “Not when it’s this cold,” she retorted.

  Jack looked at her and started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “Your face, love. And you have to laugh sometimes, otherwise you’d cry, eh?”

  They came to a street corner. A night bus was turning from Edgeware Road, and its shaded headlamps gave just enough light to reveal the impressive shape of the arch on their
left and, behind it, the entrance to the park. Jack took Maggie’s hand and led her across the street.

  “Here you are. Hyde Park,” he said. “Now what? We’re in a bloody park. What next? Sit here until we freeze?”

  “I’d rather freeze than be bombed,” she said. “Look, here’s a bench out of the wind. Let’s just sit here awhile, all right?”

  They sat. Jack put an arm around her. “You’re shivering,” he said. “It won’t do no good if you catch pneumonia, will it? Why don’t we see if we can find a spot open somewhere and I can get you a cup of tea?”

  She shook her head. “I’m not going anywhere until morning.”

  They sat. In the distance they heard the ringing of a fire engine or ambulance bell. And singing, although it was hard to tell if it came from carollers or a pub turning out rowdies. Otherwise the only sound was the sigh of the wind through the bare trees. At last Maggie said, “You’re right, Jack. This wind is a bit cold, isn’t it?”

  Jack stood up, taking her hand. “Come on. Let’s try and find somewhere for the night. A shelter nearby.”

  “I’m not going down no shelter.” Maggie tore her hand from his.

  “Come on, old duck,” he coaxed. “You can’t stay here all night. It’s getting colder by the minute. Maybe there’s a little boarding house or something.”

  “We don’t have no money, do we?” Her voice quivered. “We can’t pay for nothing. Just about a cup of tea each.”

  “Then let’s go and find a cup of tea.”

  “It’s Christmas Eve. Everything will be closed except for pubs.”

  “Then at least a bloody drink!” Jack’s patience was ebbing fast. “Come on, old girl. It’s not like you to give up.”

  “Well, I have given up, haven’t I? I lost my little girl. And now I’ve lost my home, all my things. I’ve got nothing, nowhere. Why shouldn’t I just sit here until I freeze to death?”

  Jack stroked her cheek. “You’ve still got me, Maggie. I need you,” he said.

  “Yeah, right. To cook your meals and keep your clothes clean.”

  “Not just that. I’ve got nothing, either. And I’m nothing without you. Look, you stay put if you want to, but I’m going to see what I can find. We need somewhere to shelter for the night. There’s bound to be something open in the West End, isn’t there? I’ll be back soon, all right?”

  Maggie nodded. “Take care of yourself, though, crossing the street.”

  She hugged her knees to her chest as she curled up on the seat. The wind had risen now and came straight from the east, ice cold. Bare trees swayed and creaked in the wind. Searchlights still played across the sky. It wasn’t long before Maggie heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel path and saw Jack’s dark shape hurrying towards her.

  “Come and see what I’ve found!” he called to her. “You won’t believe it. A real miracle.”

  He grabbed her excitedly and started dragging her along.

  “What is it? Where are you taking me?” She tried to break his grip on her.

  “You’ll see.” He was grinning like a schoolboy.

  “I’m not going down no shelter.” Still she resisted.

  “It’s not a shelter. You’ll like it. Trust me. Come on.”

  They crossed Bayswater Road, turned into a side street, passed a barrier and then stood before a grand-looking house. It was painted white, with steps leading up to the front door.

  “What is it?” she demanded again.

  “This house. I noticed the front door was open. There’s nobody inside. They’ve all gone. See the barrier down there? The street’s been shut off.”

  “Because there must have been a bomb or something, you silly sod.”

  “Well, there ain’t no bomb now, is there? Look. The street’s deserted and quite peaceful. Nothing. So come on. We’ve got our place to shelter for the night. And wait till you see what kind of place it is, too.”

  Maggie hung back. “I don’t like to, Jack. It’s trespassing, isn’t it?”

  “Look, love, if the owners come back we’ll explain. They would understand. We’re not going to damage anything, just shelter for the night. Come on. Up we go.”

  He led her up the steps as if she were a small child.

  “The electricity’s still working,” he said as he closed the door. “And I checked. They have their blackout curtains up.” He flipped a switch on the wall, and the hallway was flooded with light, revealing marble-tiled floors and a grand staircase curving up on one side. Old portraits in gilded frames looked down from the walls. Maggie stared up at them, feeling that the eyes in those paintings were looking at her. As her gaze moved beyond them, she started in fear. For a moment she thought she had seen a white face, peering through the railings on the landing above.

  “I don’t like it,” she whispered. “I think I saw a ghost.”

  “You’re imagining things,” he said. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to park ourselves.” He led her through to a large and ornate sitting room with a brocade sofa and armchairs set before a fireplace. Heavy velvet curtains covered the windows. Jack went over and checked the blackout blinds before turning on the light. A fire was laid, ready to be lit.

  “We’ll get a fire going, then we’ll have a little explore, all right?”

  Maggie nodded. Jack knelt down and struck a match. The newspaper blazed up and soon the kindling was crackling. Jack added coal and the fire burned bright.

  “Now let’s see if they left anything to eat,” he said. He struck out fearlessly while Maggie followed, less enthusiastic. They went along the hall but only came to a dining room, a library and another sitting room at the back of the house. “Kitchen must be downstairs, I suppose,” he said. “That’s the way they do it in big houses, isn’t it? Keep the servants out of the way.”

  “I wonder what happened to the servants,” Maggie said, still glancing around nervously. “Where can everyone have gone?”

  They came to a flight of steps going down. Jack went ahead, Maggie hesitating at the pool of darkness below. Jack found a light switch, and when he turned it on he gave a delighted laugh. “Will you look at that! A Christmas hamper. From Fortnum and Mason no less.”

  “Jack, don’t touch it,” Maggie said, slapping at his hand.

  But he was already undoing the leather straps. As he opened it, even Maggie gasped. Mince pies, smoked salmon, pâté, cheese straws, sausage rolls, a Christmas pudding, a small Dundee cake and a bottle of champagne . . .

  “Everything you could ever have wanted, Maggie,” he said, beaming as if he were a magician who had just produced this from a hat.

  “But it’s not ours, Jack. We can’t touch it.”

  “They aren’t coming back, are they? They’ve gone. Scarpered. They left their front door open. And this stuff will spoil. Nobody will mind if we have a couple of mince pies and sausage rolls. And see here on the table—there’s a packet of pork sausages. What do you say you cook us up a few sausages, eh, love?”

  “Well, the sausages would certainly go bad,” she agreed. She went over to the big gas range and tried to turn it on, then shook her head. “They must have turned off the gas.”

  “No matter, love. We’ll cook them over the fire upstairs, like we used to do on picnics. Find us a couple of forks and plates and we’ll be right as rain.”

  He was stalking around the kitchen as he spoke. “Not very well stocked for a big house like this,” he said. “Look, the icebox is empty. Nothing much in the larder. Not even a decent bottle of beer. There’s a half-empty bottle of milk and a ginger beer, and that’s about it. I reckon they must have planned to be away for Christmas and taken their servants with them.”

  “Then why the hamper and the sausages?”

  Jack shrugged. “I can’t answer that, love. I just know we’re going to enjoy them. Come on. Give me one of them frying pans and bring them plates upstairs. And put on some of them mince pies and things. We’re going to have a blowout Christmas Eve.”

  They made
their way up the stairs again. As they walked along the hall, Maggie glanced up nervously at that staircase. Had the owners fled because of a ghost? It all seemed too uncanny—the empty house, the open door, the untouched hamper . . .

  Jack seemed to have no such fears. He was already kneeling in front of the fire, balancing a pan over the coals. The room began to be filled with the enticing aroma of frying. Suddenly Maggie turned around and put her hand to her mouth, giving a little gasp to stifle the scream. “Jack!” She could hardly get the word out, pointing at the doorway.

  A small boy stood there, dressed in striped pyjamas and holding a battered stuffed dog in one hand. “Are those sausages?” he asked.

  Jack had scrambled to his feet. “What the blooming hell . . . ,” he began.

  “If you are burglars, please don’t hurt me,” the boy said, staring at them with big frightened eyes, “but I’m awfully hungry. I haven’t had anything to eat for ages, apart from a packet of biscuits.”

  “We’re not burglars, love,” Maggie said in a soft voice. “But what are you doing here all alone? Where is everybody? What were they thinking, leaving you in the house all by yourself?”

  The boy chewed on his bottom lip. “Mummy and I came up to town yesterday. We’d been living down in the country, you see. Then Mummy suddenly decided it would be fun to have Christmas in London, even though the house was all closed up and the servants had gone. So we came. And I said we had to have a Christmas tree, and she went out to find one . . .” His voice faltered for the first time. “And she never came back. I’ve waited and waited and I didn’t know what to do.”

  Maggie went over to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “You poor little love. You’re freezing. Come and sit by the fire.”

  “What’s your name, son?” Jack asked.

  “It’s Peter.”

  “How old are you, Peter?”

  “I’m six years old. Almost seven.”

  “Come and sit next to me on the rug.” Jack patted the floor beside him. “You can help with the sausages.”