What Child Is This (Kindle Single)

by Rhys Bowen

  “I can tie my own shoes,” he said, brushing her hand away indignantly. Maggie had to wait while he tied them. Then he insisted on using the lavatory. She realized she wanted to go, too, but didn’t dare hang around. Jack was waiting in the front hall.

  “Here’s your overcoat and cap, Peter,” he said once they joined him. “Posh-looking school cap, that is.”

  “That was my old school,” Peter said as Jack jammed it on to his head. “I’ve been going to the village school near Mrs Bradshaw’s, but it’s actually quite awful. The other boys tease me. If there hadn’t been a war, I was supposed to go to my father’s old boarding school when I turned seven.”

  “Sending you away to school at seven? What were they thinking?” Maggie demanded.

  “My father went when he was seven,” Peter said. “They sent him home from India to go to school in England. It’s what everybody did.”

  “Well, let’s not talk about it now,” Jack said, wrapping a scarf around the boy’s neck.

  “Where will we go?” Peter asked, the worried frown wrinkling his forehead.

  “I thought you might like to stay with my sister in Essex,” Maggie said. “They’ve got a farm with animals. Lots of animals.”

  “Horses? And cows?” For a second Peter’s face lit up, but then he blurted out, “But what about Mummy? What if she comes back and I’m not here?”

  “We’ll look for your mummy first,” Jack said. “We’ll do that right away. We’ll go to the nearest police station and ask them to help us.”

  Suddenly Jack paused. “What’s that? Listen, there’s something going on in the street.” He opened the front door. There was shouting and the rumble of heavy vehicles, and a man wearing a warden’s tin hat was walking down the street with a megaphone.

  “If anyone is still in the area, they need to evacuate immediately,” he barked into the megaphone. “The bomb-disposal team has arrived to defuse an unexploded bomb.”

  Maggie grabbed Peter’s hand and hurried him down the front steps, with Jack following. Suddenly Peter wrenched himself free. “Wait. I’ve forgotten Bowo and my Christmas presents.” He darted back into the house.

  “Peter, come back here.” Jack chased after him.

  “Jack! No! Come back!” Maggie screamed. She stood on the pavement, torn between going after them and staying where she was.

  The warden had heard their voices and came striding up to Maggie. “What the devil do you think you’re doing? This area was evacuated. There’s an unexploded bomb!”

  “I know.” Maggie couldn’t take her eyes off the house. “But we found this young boy, left all alone here. His mum went out and never came back. And my husband’s gone back in there to get him!”

  “Bloody hell,” the man muttered. “They’re working on that bomb right now and they say it’s a bugger, pardon my language. It’s one of those tricky new ones with the double fuse. They aren’t at all sure—” He didn’t finish the sentence. There was a deep boom. A wave of heat, dust and debris came flying at them, knocking Maggie off her feet and sucking the air from her lungs. For a second she lay there, unable to move while debris rained on to her. Then she tried to stagger to her feet, gasping for air.

  “Jack!” she screamed. What had once been a fine-looking house was now a broken pile of rubble. The roof and upper floor were gone. The front wall had fallen away, revealing the bedroom they had looked at, with the four-poster still standing but the wardrobe burst open and clothing strewn everywhere. Maggie stood staring at it, not wanting to believe what she was seeing. A fire engine must have been waiting nearby, because a fireman appeared at her side and put an arm around her.

  “Were you just in that house, missus?” he asked. “Are you all right?”

  “My husband,” Maggie gasped, still not able to speak properly. “There was a little boy . . . My husband went after him and they were both . . .” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

  “It wasn’t your house, then?”

  Maggie shook her head emphatically. “No, our house got bombed last night. Incendiary. The whole street went up. We came here to get away from the bombing, and we found the boy . . . all alone in the house.”

  “And your husband went back in to rescue him? Brave chap. Don’t worry. We might still find them. We’ve got our men in there now.”

  Maggie stared at the ruin, hopelessness overwhelming her. “They can’t possibly . . .”

  Then there was a shout, and through what had once been the front door Jack emerged, with Peter in his arms.

  “Jack!” Maggie ran towards him. “You’re alive. I thought . . . I couldn’t believe . . .” Tears streamed down her face.

  “It’s all right, old girl,” he said. “We’re both fine. We were on the stairs when it happened, so we were shielded from the worst. It knocked us down the flight, of course. Plucky little chap here . . . A bit of ceiling came down on my leg, and Peter here managed to help me get free, didn’t you, son?”

  Peter was covered in dust, and his eyes were very wide, but he nodded. More firemen surrounded them and one said, “Bombs are strange things. You’d be surprised how many times we’ve found a house in rubble and someone lying in bed in the middle of it, quite unharmed.”

  Another fireman chimed in, “Are you hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

  “Just a few cuts and bruises, I think,” Jack said. “Bloody miracle, if you ask me.”

  The men all nodded in agreement. “Let’s get you to one of the evacuation centres,” one offered. “A cup of tea and a warm blanket for shock. That’s what you need. Wait here and I’ll find someone to transport you.”

  From behind the house came the ringing of an ambulance bell. Those men who were trying to disarm the bomb, Maggie thought. They must have been blown to pieces. At least one wife or mother would have the worst news on Christmas Day. She nestled her head against Jack, her arm around Peter.

  A crowd had gathered where the street was cordoned off. As Maggie, Jack and Peter were escorted towards a waiting vehicle, a man stepped out of the crowd to intercept them. He was well dressed in a dark overcoat and trilby hat, a bright red scarf around his throat, and he tipped the hat to Maggie. “Excuse me, if I might have a word. My name’s Andrew Pearson. I’m a reporter with the Daily Express. I was on my way to church when I heard the blast. I’ve just been told that you’re a hero, sir.”

  “Me?” Jack gave an embarrassed grin.

  “Yes, you. These firemen told me your own home was bombed, but that you went in to rescue this young boy who’d been left in the house alone. You were both inside when the bomb went off? Lucky to make it out alive.”

  Jack looked as though he was about to confess that it hadn’t been exactly like that, then obviously thought better of it.

  The newcomer held out his hand. “Delighted to meet you, sir. And your name is?”

  “Harris. Jack Harris. And this is the wife, Maggie. And this young nipper is called Peter.”

  “Splendid.” The man was beaming at them. “Delighted to meet you.”

  Maggie stepped forward. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but we’ve all had an awful shock and I don’t think we should be standing in the street chatting at the moment.”

  “I quite agree,” Andrew Pearson said. Inquisitive onlookers were now pressing closer. “Look, I live just around the corner. Would you like to come back to my flat? It’s nice and warm, and I’d like to interview you for my paper. My editor told us to be on the lookout for a heart-warming Christmas story, and I think you just fit the bill.”

  “Oh, I don’t think we want to be in the papers,” Maggie began, but Jack cut her off.

  “Of course we do.” He gave her a wink. “It may help us find Peter’s mum.”

  “All right then. If you say so, Jack.” Maggie took Peter’s hand.

  Andrew Pearson gave her an encouraging smile. “Splendid. This way then. You’re able to walk all right?”

  “We’ll manage,” Jack said.

  “You all ri
ght, love?” Maggie asked Peter.

  He nodded, his eyes still wide with fear. They walked in silence to the end of the street. Some of the crowd followed, hoping to be in on the story. Andrew led the trio up to a second-floor flat in a large red-brick building. Inside was clearly a man’s residence—leather chairs, Christmas cards on the mantelpiece but no other ornaments. Still, it was warm and pleasant, with a fire burning in the hearth and radiators around the walls. Andrew told them to make themselves comfortable while he boiled a kettle. “I expect you’d like to clean up a little first, wouldn’t you?” he suggested. “The bathroom is at the end of the hall.”

  “You’d better go first, Jack. You’ve got bits of plaster in your hair, and your face looks like a ghost,” Maggie said.

  “I bet I look a right spectacle, eh, Peter?” Jack said, grinning at the boy. “And you better come with me. You don’t look much better.”

  He put an arm around Peter’s shoulder, and the boy allowed himself to be led down the hall. He’s in shock, poor little thing, Maggie thought. He hadn’t said a word since they had emerged from the bombed house.

  As Maggie waited for them to come out of the bathroom, she heard Andrew Pearson on the telephone. “Yes, really good story. ‘Bombed-out hero rescues abandoned child.’ I’ll send it in right away.”

  She glanced at Jack as he and Peter came back into the room. “We can’t let him think . . . ,” she began.

  “Think what?” Jack gave her a warning frown. “I did what he said, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, you were brave, but he’s making it sound as if you dashed in to be a hero, when actually we spent the night there and ate their food.”

  “I went back in to rescue Peter, didn’t I? Besides, what’s the harm in it? It might work out well for us. Someone might see the article and offer us a place to live. Or at least send us some clothes or furniture.”

  As he spoke, Maggie was observing him. There was a large lump in his pocket. Maggie stared in horror. “Jack, you didn’t . . . ?” she whispered, pointing at his overcoat pocket.

  “Didn’t what?”

  “You know.” She moved closer and whispered in his ear. “What we were talking about last night, that silver. You didn’t nick a bit?”

  “What?” He looked at her and laughed. “This?” He reached in and produced Peter’s old toy dog. “This is what we went to find, remember?”

  “Bowo!” Peter grabbed him. “You found him! Thank you so much. But my Christmas presents are gone. All my toys.” He looked up hopelessly, blinking back tears. “Our whole house is gone, isn’t it?”

  “I know, boy. You just have to be brave right now. It will all come right in the end,” Jack said, pulling the boy to him.

  Maggie slipped down the hall to the bathroom. Her overcoat was covered in dust and debris. Her face in the mirror looked haggard and old. She used the loo, splashed water on her face and combed her hair. As she joined the others, Andrew Pearson appeared with a tray containing a teapot and cups and saucers. “I don’t suppose you’ve had breakfast yet,” he said. “I’ve managed to get my hands on some bacon. How about it?”

  “Bacon?” Peter’s face lit up.

  Maggie didn’t think she could swallow anything, but she nodded politely. “Lovely, thank you. Would you like me to give you a hand?”

  “No. All under control. You get that tea down you. Wonderful for shock.”

  Once breakfast was cooked they sat around the table, eating eggs, bacon and sausage.

  “Best meal I’ve had in months.” Jack sighed in satisfaction.

  “Absolutely smashing,” Peter agreed, making the grown-ups smile.

  “Now . . .” Andrew Pearson took out a notebook. “Do you mind if I ask a few questions?”

  They explained about being bombed out, Maggie wanting to escape from the East End, the house with the door open and finding the boy alone inside. Andrew was fascinated by this part of the story. Peter related the sudden decision to come up to London and his mother going off to find a Christmas tree.

  “You’re a very brave little boy,” Andrew said. “But don’t worry. We’ll track down your mother, I’m sure. What is her name?”

  “It’s Felicia,” Peter said. “Felicia Wentworth.”

  “And what does she look like?”

  “Very pretty.”

  Andrew smiled. “Hair colour, height?”

  “Just normal,” Peter said. “Her hair is sort of light brown, and she’s about as tall as most ladies. But she’s really pretty. Everyone says so.”

  Andrew went through to his study, and they heard him on the telephone again. He came back. “My colleagues at the newspaper are searching for your mother now. They’re very good at finding out things. Now, what about the rest of your family—where are they?”

  “My daddy is in the army in Africa. That’s all.”

  “And your daddy’s name?”

  Peter frowned, trying to remember. “I think it’s Charles. Yes, that’s right. Mummy calls him Charlie.”

  “Charles Wentworth. Do you know what regiment?”

  Peter knew this one instantly. “Grenadier Guards.”

  “Oh, a guardsman. He should be easy enough to locate.”

  Again he left, relayed this information into his telephone and came back. “Now just give me a moment to write up this story, and then we wait to see what the newspaper can dig up.”

  They sat, listening to the clatter of the typewriter. When he had finished he came back to them. “Jack, Maggie, what do you think you’ll do next? Do you have any relatives to go to?”

  “My sister has a farm in Essex,” Maggie said, glancing across at Jack. “We could go there. We could take Peter with us, if his parents can’t be located. He’d like it there. Lots of animals.”

  “Unfortunately I have to be back at work right after Boxing Day,” Jack said, “so I’m not sure how that’s going to happen. I’ve a mate we can stay with for the time being. He’s got a spare room since his son was lost in the war.”

  Andrew looked from one face to the next. “Look, I have to go to Christmas lunch with my sister. She made me promise I’d come. I’ve just telephoned her, and she insisted you join us. She’s got two young boys and it will be nice for Peter.”

  “If you’re sure it’s all right?” Maggie glanced at Jack. “We don’t like to intrude, and we’re not dressed for anywhere posh.”

  “My sister won’t mind,” Andrew said. “It’s just her and her sons. No big party.”

  “We ain’t had no better offers, have we?” Jack replied. “Ta. We’d be glad to.”

  “We’ll take a taxi,” Andrew said. “I have to drop off the article at my newspaper, but it’s not far out of our way.”

  They piled into a taxicab that took them along Oxford Street, down Regent, through Trafalgar Square to the Strand. The London streets were almost deserted, except for the crowd spilling out of St Martin-in-the-Fields at the end of a service. There were a few taxis pulling up at the Savoy. Then they turned into Fleet Street and stopped outside an art deco building.

  “I won’t be a jiff,” Andrew Pearson said. They waited in the cab until he reappeared, this time with another man. “I’ve a photographer wanting to take your picture, if you don’t mind,” he said. They could hardly refuse, but Maggie was horribly conscious of their tattered appearance, Jack’s overcoat still dusty and dishevelled, and herself wearing her house shoes. She was relieved when they climbed back into the taxi and took off again. Andrew cleared his throat. “So my colleagues at the paper have found out about your father, Peter. You didn’t tell us he was a brigadier.”

  “Is he?” Peter looked impressed. “I knew he was something important. Is he all right? Mummy was worried . . .”

  “I think we’d have heard if anything bad had happened to a senior officer,” Andrew said. “Grenadier Guards, eh? Splendid old regiment.”

  “You weren’t called up yourself?” Jack asked. There was an undertone of accusation in his voice.


  “Oh, indeed, I was,” Andrew replied. “RAF. Battle of Britain. I got shot down and now my lungs aren’t much good. So it was back to Civvy Street. How about you, Jack?”

  “I’m at the docks. Protected occupation.”

  “Of course. Hard work, too, I’d imagine.”

  The taxi came to a halt outside a grand Georgian house in a quiet street just behind Oxford Circus. Andrew went ahead and was met by two exited boys. “Did you bring us presents, Uncle Andrew?” they asked, grabbing at his sleeves.

  “Oh dear, I completely forgot,” Andrew said, then burst out laughing. “I already delivered them to your mother. We’ll have to ask her.”

  “Are they being pests?” A slightly harassed-looking young woman appeared behind the boys. “I’m Amelia Cameron. How lovely to see you all. Do come in.”

  “Maggie and Jack Harris. And this is Peter. It’s very kind of you,” Maggie said. “We don’t want to intrude.”

  “Don’t be silly,” the woman said. “I’d hope someone would take me in if my house was bombed. And it’s Christmas. The more the merrier. Only you’ll have to excuse my cooking. We no longer have a cook—she went off to join the Wrens—and I’m still a learner.”

  She swept them through to a large sitting room. The floor was strewn with wrapping paper and toys.

  “I’m sorry if the place already looks as if a tornado hit it,” Amelia said. “These two hooligans are Alistair and Robin. Make sure you include Peter in your game, boys.”

  “Look what we got,” one of the boys said, grabbing Peter by the arm.

  “A fort!” Peter said, nodding with approval. “I have one just like it.” He paused and his face fell. “Oh. I mean I used to have one. It’s gone now.”

  “You can play with ours,” the boy said. “I’m Alistair. I’m eight. And this is Robin. He’s five. How old are you?”

  “Almost seven.”

  And the boys were down on the floor together, playing with the new fort as if they were old friends. Amelia came over to Maggie and led her aside. “I expect you’d like to freshen up,” she whispered.