Carrie's War

by Nina Bawden

  ‘Bathroom for you,’ Carrie said, marching him in. ‘If you don’t shut up now, I’ll squeeze a cold flannel right down the back of your neck.’

  She had closed the door. When Nick was quiet, which was almost at once (cold water was almost as hateful as spiders) Miss Evans whispered timidly through it, ‘Do be quick, dear, time’s getting on …’

  They couldn’t be very quick because there was no electric light upstairs and they had to manage with the candle Carrie was holding. She couldn’t find Nick’s face flannel by its flickering light and he wouldn’t use hers. And their mother had screwed up the tube of toothpaste so tightly that the lid wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Have to go without cleaning your teeth just for once,’ Carrie said.

  ‘I won’t. My mouth feels all furry and yakky. Horrible, Carrie. Beastly and horrible and disgusting …’

  A door banged downstairs and stopped him midwail, mouth hanging open. He looked at Carrie with eyes like black pits. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘Carrie …’

  Her own heart was thumping, banging about in her chest like a tennis ball. ‘Come on,’ she said, and whisked him out of the bathroom.

  Miss Evans was standing outside. ‘Into bed now,’ she said softly, hustling them past her. Then began scattering backwards and forwards like a small, frightened mouse, picking up the things they had dropped, clothes in the bedroom, toothpaste tube in the bathroom. ‘Oh dear,’ she was saying, under her breath, ‘oh dear, oh dear, oh dear …’

  ‘Lou,’ a man’s voice shouted. ‘Lou! What are you up to?’

  ‘Coming, Samuel,’ Miss Evans called from the landing. ‘Just a minute.’

  ‘What are you doing up there? I might have known, I suppose. Up and down the stairs, soon as my back’s turned, wearing out the stair carpet …’

  Safe in bed, Carrie blew out the candle. Miss Evans shut the door. The loud, hectoring voice went on. ‘Messing and humbugging about, up and down, back and forth, in and out, messing and humbugging about …’

  It was velvet dark in the room, no light from the window because the thick, blackout curtains were drawn. They lay quite still in the darkness, listening to the roar of Mr Evans’s voice and the thin squeak of his sister’s. Like a mouse answering a lion, Carrie thought. Then the heavy tread of feet down the passage. The bang of another door. And silence at last.

  For several minutes neither of them dared to break it. Then Nick said, ‘I want Mummy.’

  Carrie got out of her bed and felt her way into his. He clutched at her and wound himself round her like an octopus, or like ivy, his cold feet in her stomach. ‘I want to go home,’ he said. ‘I don’t like it here. I don’t want to be safe in the country. I want Mummy and Milly and Dad.’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ Carrie held him tight to comfort them both. She said, ‘It won’t seem so bad in the morning.’

  He was shaking and shivering. He whispered into her ear, ‘He must be an Ogre, Carrie. A horrible, disgusting, real-life OGRE.’

  Chapter Three

  He wasn’t an Ogre, of course. Just a tall, thin, cross man with a loud voice, pale, staring, pop-eyes, and tufts of spiky hair sticking out from each nostril.

  Councillor Samuel Isaac Evans was a bully. He bullied his sister. He even bullied the women who came into his shop, selling them things they didn’t really want to buy and refusing to stock things that they did. ‘Take it or leave it,’ he’d say. ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  He would have bullied the children if he had thought they were frightened of him. But although Carrie was a little frightened, she didn’t show it, and Nick wasn’t frightened at all. He was frightened of Ogres and spiders and crabs and cold water and the dentist and dark nights, but he wasn’t often frightened of people. Perhaps this was only because he had never had reason to be until he met Mr Evans, but he wasn’t afraid of him, even after that first, dreadful night, because Mr Evans had false teeth that clicked when he talked. ‘You can’t really be scared of someone whose teeth might fall out,’ he told Carrie.

  The possibility fascinated him from the beginning, from the moment Mr Evans walked into the kitchen while they were having breakfast their first morning and bared those loose teeth in what he probably thought was a smile. It looked to the children more like the kind of grin a tiger might give before it pounced on its prey. They put down their porridge spoons and stood up, politely and meekly.

  It seemed to please him. He said, ‘You’ve got a few manners, I see. That’s something! That’s a bit of sugar on the pill!’

  They didn’t know what to say to this so they said nothing and he stood there, grinning and rubbing his hands together. At last he said, ‘Sit down, then, finish your breakfast, what are you waiting for? It’s a wicked Sin to let good food get cold. You’ve fallen on your feet, let me tell you, you’ll get good food in this house. So no faddiness mind! No whining round my sister for titbits when my back’s turned. Particularly the boy. I know what boys are! Walking stomachs! I told her, you fetch two girls now, there’s just the one room, but she got round me, she said, the boy’s only a babby!’ He looked sharply at Nick. ‘Not too much of a babby, I hope. No wet beds. That I won’t stand!’

  Nick’s gaze was fixed on Mr Evans’s mouth. ‘That’s a rude thing to mention,’ he said in a clear, icy voice that made Carrie tremble. But Mr Evans didn’t fly into the rage she’d expected. He simply looked startled – as if a worm had just lifted its head and answered him back, Carrie thought.

  He sucked his teeth for a minute. Then said, surprisingly mildly, ‘All right. All right, then. You mind your Ps and Qs, see, and I won’t complain. As long as you toe the chalk line! Rules are made to be kept in this house, no shouting, or running upstairs, and no Language.’ Nick looked at him and he went on – quickly, as if he knew what was coming, ‘No Bad Language, that is, I’ll have no foul mouths here. I don’t know how you’ve been brought up but this house is run in the Fear of the Lord.’

  Nick said, ‘We don’t swear. Even my father doesn’t swear. And he’s a Naval Officer.’

  What an odd thing to say, Carrie thought. But Mr Evans was looking at Nick with a certain, grudging respect.

  ‘Oh, an Officer, is he? Well, well.’

  ‘A Captain,’ Nick said. ‘Captain Peter Willow.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Mr Evans’s teeth clicked – to attention, perhaps. He said, grinning again, ‘Then let’s hope he’s taught you how to behave. It’ll save me the trouble,’ and turned on his heel and went back to the shop.

  Silence fell. Miss Evans moved from the sink where she’d been all this time, standing quite still, and started to clear the plates from the table.

  Nick said, ‘You don’t mind Language, do you? I mean, I don’t know the deaf and dumb alphabet.’

  ‘Don’t be smart,’ Carrie said, but Miss Evans laughed. Hand to her mouth, bright squirrel eyes watching the door as if she were scared he’d come back and catch her.

  She said softly, ‘Oh, his bark’s worse than his bite. Though he won’t stand to be crossed, so don’t be too cheeky and mind what he says! I’ve always minded him – he’s so much older, you see. When our mam died – our dad had been killed down the pit long before – he took me in and brought me up. His wife was alive then, poor, dear soul, and his son’s not much younger than I am. That’s Frederick, he’s away in the Army. Mr Evans brought us up together, made no difference between us. Never made me feel my place. When we were naughty he’d give Fred the strap but he’d sit me on the mantelpiece to make me mind my manners. I’ve sat there many a time, scared to death of the fire and my feet pins and needles.’

  She looked at the mantelpiece above the range fire and the children looked at it too. It was a horribly long way from the ground. Miss Evans said, ‘You might say he’s been more like a father to me than a brother.’

  ‘Our father never sat anyone on a mantelpiece,’ Nick said. ‘Or frightened anyone.’

  Carrie wasn’t really much afraid of Mr Evans. But she kept out of his w
ay as his sister’s scraggy old cat did, streaking from its place by the fire the moment his feet were heard in the passage. Not that he had ever kicked the cat, Carrie thought; it was just wary, as she was. ‘Animals know,’ she said to Nick, ‘when people aren’t friendly.’

  Though perhaps in his blustery way he did try to be friends with them. He never shared their meals, eating by himself in the parlour with Miss Evans waiting on him, but sometimes he would come into the kitchen while they were having their tea and say, ‘Well, Caroline, it’s a fine day for the race, isn’t it?’ ‘What race?’ she would ask, as she was expected to, and he would answer, ‘The Human Race,’ and nearly lose his teeth laughing.

  And he let them help in the shop (Carrie loved that: measuring out things on the scales and giving the change) until Nick stole some biscuits one day and he came in and caught him.

  They had been there three weeks. Miss Evans had become Auntie Lou and it seemed they had known her for ever. It was about six o’clock and Carrie was helping to wash up the tea things when she heard Mr Evans’s bellow of rage.

  She ran into the shop. Nick was standing there, white as flour, with ginger biscuit crumbs round his mouth, and Mr Evans was shouting.

  ‘Thief! Caught red-handed now, aren’t you? How long has this been going on? Sneaking in here when the shop’s closed and I’m safely out of the way in the parlour? Stealing! The ingratitude of it! Oh, you’ll be sorry, you’ll pay. You need a sharp lesson, my lad, and I don’t mind giving it. Strap’s what you’re asking for, isn’t it?’ He began to unbuckle his belt. He said, gloatingly, ‘On your bare bottom!’

  Carrie gasped. Nick had never been beaten, not even a slap! He was standing there, shivering! What could she do? Fetch the police? But Nick had been stealing! Auntie Lou? She was no use – she’d not even come to see what was happening. She was probably standing in the kitchen, listening and wringing her hands …

  She said, ‘Please, Mr Evans. Oh, please. He’s only a little boy. Not a thief, just a little boy who likes biscuits. He’s got an awful sweet tooth, he can’t help it. I don’t suppose he thought it was stealing.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to learn to think, won’t he?’ Mr Evans said.

  He advanced on Nick who had retreated as far as he could. Was standing with his back to the shop door and staring. He said, ‘If you hit me, I’ll tell. I’ll go to school and tell my teacher.’

  Mr Evans laughed. ‘And what will she say, my young master? That it’s a fine thing you’ve done, to steal from the good people who have taken you in?’

  ‘I’ll say I was hungry,’ Nick said.

  Mr Evans stopped moving. Carrie couldn’t see his face because she was behind him but she could see Nick’s. He was so pale she thought he would faint, but his eyes were dark and steady.

  A hundred years seemed to pass. They all stood quite still, as if frozen. Then, very slowly, Mr Evans fastened his belt round his trousers …

  He prayed for Nick that night. On his knees, by the bed, Nick kneeling beside him.

  ‘O Lord, look down upon this sinful child in his wickedness and lead him from his evil ways into righteousness. If he is tempted again, remind him of the pains of Thy Hell, the torment and burning, so that he may quiver in his wretched flesh and repent in his immortal soul …’

  He prayed for about half an hour. Carrie thought she would rather have been beaten, herself, but Nick was triumphant. ‘I knew I could stop him if I said I was hungry,’ he said when it was all over. ‘Grown-ups don’t mind being nasty to children but they don’t like other grown-ups to know they’ve been nasty.’

  He sounded smugly cheerful but Carrie was nervous. She felt Nick had made an enemy of Mr Evans and that might turn out to be dangerous.

  ‘He’s not so nasty really,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t have pinched his biscuits, you know you shouldn’t, you’re not such a baby. And it was mean to say you were hungry because it’s simply not true, you’re just greedy for biscuits. And I know he’s nasty to Auntie Lou sometimes but it’s her own fault because she lets him be. She’s nice, Auntie Lou, but she’s stupid.’

  ‘It isn’t her fault, he is nasty,’ Nick said. ‘He’s mean nasty. You know he yelled at Auntie Lou yesterday because he slipped on the mat in the hall? He said she’d polished underneath it but she hadn’t. I was standing in the kitchen, he didn’t see me but I saw him. I saw him move the mat so it should be on a slippery bit, and then sort of pretend to slip on it, and then start to shout.’ He stopped. They were in the same bed. He put his hand into Carrie’s. It felt small and boneless. ‘I hate him,’ he said with a shake in his voice, ‘I really and truly do hate him.’

  Carrie said slowly, ‘If you really do hate it here, then we ought to tell someone.’ But her heart sank. Who could she tell? Their mother and father were so far away and you couldn’t write that sort of thing in a letter. Miss Fazackerly? She had said, ‘Come and tell me if things aren’t all right in your billets.’ But what could she do, if they did? There were so many evacuees in the town and not enough places to stay, so the teachers said. The houses were small and some of the children were having to sleep three to a bed. How could she go to Miss Fazackerly and say, ‘I’m sorry but we don’t want to stay with Mr Evans any more because he caught Nick stealing his biscuits?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t hate being here,’ Nick said, sounding surprised. ‘I just hate him, that’s all. But I don’t want to leave, I’m used to it now.’

  It seemed, in fact, as if they had lived there all their lives long. Slept in that bedroom, eaten in that kitchen; used the earth privy in the daytime (Nick got constipated because of the spiders); kept out of Mr Evans’s way; woken up to the pit hooter wailing; gone running to school down the hilly, main street …

  Nick went to the local Primary because he was still young enough but the older children were given lessons by their own teachers in the Chapels. Ebenezer Chapel, Siloa Chapel – cold, gloomy places with pictures of dead, bearded Chapel Elders looking down from the walls. It was quite different from going to school in London. More fun, Carrie thought, and was glad she hadn’t been left behind, as some of her friends had been, in the big town at the other end of the valley. There was a new Secondary there, a fine building everyone said, with playing fields and a pool and modern laboratories but it sounded, to Carrie, very ordinary and dull. She missed her friends but she didn’t envy them – though she thought Albert Sandwich probably did: he was the sort of boy who would prefer to be taught in a proper school. She looked for him once or twice; even went one day to the tiny public library which was in a room with stained glass windows at the back of the Town Hall, but she couldn’t find him. Perhaps he had got himself moved to the bigger town, or perhaps he had gone home to London as some of the children had done. The unhappy ones who were homesick for their mothers.

  Carrie’s mother wasn’t in London any more. Her father’s ship was on convoy duty in the North Sea, and her mother had gone to live in Glasgow so she could see him when he came into port. She wrote to Carrie and Nick and said she was living in a boarding house in a street near the docks, in a dark little room that smelt of kippers. She said how glad she was they had somewhere nice to stay and that she hoped they were being good and making their beds and helping with the washing up and remembering to clean their teeth. She said she was driving an ambulance in the air raids and that it was very exciting but dreadfully tiring; sometimes she went to bed after breakfast and slept until evening. She sent them sweets sometimes, and several pairs of red socks she had knitted while she was waiting for a call at the ambulance station, and a photograph of herself in her uniform with a tin hat on. They showed this to Auntie Lou and she gave them a frame so that they could hang it in their bedroom, but they didn’t look at it much. It was a good likeness of their mother and she was smiling at them but she didn’t belong in the Evanses’ house. Like their father, and Milly their help, who was working in a munitions factory, and Bongo their dog (their mother hadn’t said what had happened to h
im) she belonged somewhere else. Somewhere far away and long ago. In a dream, in another life …

  The summer ended. Autumn came and they picked bilberries on the mountain: tiny, purple fruit that stained their teeth and their clothes. Autumn became winter and it turned steely cold. A feathery pattern of ice covered the mud of the yard and cracked under their feet as they ran to the privy, and it wasn’t much warmer indoors. When they went into their bedroom at night, cold air came up from the polished linoleum like air off an ice rink. The only comfortable place was the kitchen; they toasted their raw hands and feet by the fire and the heat made their chilblains itch.

  ‘You’ve got chilblains!’ their mother said when she came to see them at the beginning of December. She had travelled overnight all the way from Scotland, just for a few hours one Saturday. They had looked forward to seeing her but when she came they didn’t know what to say. She had had her hair cut. She looked different with her hair cut and it made them feel shy. Or perhaps they felt shy anyway, seeing her here where she didn’t belong. They put their hands behind their backs and said, ‘Oh, we’ve all got chilblains at school.’

  They had lunch in the parlour, a dreary room with slippery, brown leather chairs, a harmonium against one wall, and a case of dead, stuffed birds hanging on another. Mr Evans closed the shop for an extra half hour and brought out a bottle of sherry. He didn’t drink himself but he poured a glass for their mother and was really quite jolly. He even patted Nick on the head and called him ‘Young Nicodemus’, which amazed Nick so much he sat with his mouth hanging open and barely touched the roast meat on his plate. That was a pity, Carrie thought. They didn’t often get roast meat, only what Auntie Lou called ‘Done Down’, which was the remains of the joint after Mr Evans had finished with it, minced up with bread and gravy browning. ‘Young people shouldn’t have meat, it makes them too boisterous,’ was what Mr Evans said.