by Annie Murray
There were kids all over the street, ropes turning, hoops and carts, but she didn’t feel like playing. She had become aware, over the time they lived there, of a house just along the street to her left, where there were always boys going in and out. There seemed to be a lot of them, mostly skinny and white as ghosts, and she couldn’t tell them apart.
She looked along at Mrs Waring’s house. She was bound to be cooking. Mrs Waring was that kind of person, with cakes and proper food. Evie slid off her step and, looking behind her to see that no one had noticed, sidled along to the Warings’.
She felt silly standing there by the step so she tapped on the door.
‘You can’t come in now,’ Mrs Waring told her. ‘I’m just putting our dinner on the table.’ She looked down at Evie with her usual mixture of irritation and pity. ‘Ain’t you ’aving your dinner then?’
Evie shook her head.
‘Tell you what. Wait there a second.’ Mrs Waring returned with a saucer. On it were two of the most beautifully golden roast potatoes Evie had ever seen. Saliva swilled into her mouth. ‘They’ve got a bit of salt on them, bab. You can sit there and eat them. Give me back the saucer.’
‘Ta!’ Evie said. She grabbed the saucer and ran along the entry. She wasn’t going to eat them sitting on Mrs Waring’s step in full view. She didn’t want anyone else seeing this prize, least of all her sisters.
She squatted down in the entry, her back against the wall, smelling the hot, crisp potatoes. For a few minutes she ate, lost in a world of oily, salty potato taste and the feel of them in her mouth. No one disturbed her. It was like being in heaven. She didn’t think of a single other thing while she was eating them. When good things happened, she was in them, completely, without any other thought intruding. She used the last mouthful of potato to wipe the grains of salt from the plate.
When she had finished she left the empty saucer on the step. She didn’t want to go home. Rita and Shirley had discovered that a girl roughly their age lived round in the yard and they were thick as thieves with her and didn’t want Evie about at any price. And as for Mom and Dad . . .
Evie wandered down the entry and passed the entrance to the yard, going all the way to the end where the entry branched left into the little lane behind the Warings’ garden and the hens.
She saw the concrete air-raid shelter. People used them to store things in these days, when they were still standing. But Evie was thinking about the boy. Had he come out of the shelter? Might he be in there now?
There was no door anymore. Anything wooden had long gone on someone’s fire. The entrance was a black hole wreathed in cobwebs, opening onto the lane to give access to the surrounding houses. A scrub of grass and weeds clung along the edge of its walls. She tiptoed closer, her heart beating hard at the thought of the dark, windowless inside of the place. She could hear the distant little noises of the hens in Mr Waring’s garden.
She slipped her fingers into her mouth, because it made her feel safer, and looked round to check that no one else was in the entry. Trying to push away thoughts of the darkness and monsters and ghosts, she stepped inside.
Six
It felt cool inside. The hairs rose on Evie’s arms and she shivered and stuck her fingers in her mouth. For a few moments she could hardly see, but her eyes gradually adjusted.
There did not seem to be anything much in the shelter but the dark dampness of the place gave her the creeps. She longed to have Whisky with her. She could rest her hand on Whisky’s head and cuddle her. It would have been nice to have some other living thing there with her in the cold gloom. She looked around her, up at the ceiling. The corners were draped with thick, dusty cobwebs and she didn’t like it.
Something caught her eye, to her right, at the back: a faint glint of light. Evie’s heart picked up speed. Someone was there! She knew, immediately, who it must be, but at the same time she was scared. She wanted to run out and back along the entry but she could not seem to move.
A moment later the glint of light appeared again. Then a voice said, quietly, ‘Oh. It’s you.’
Evie knew it was the boy. He wasn’t frightening and he didn’t sound as if he minded it being her so she stepped closer. He was sitting in the corner against the wall, his knees bunched up by his chest.
‘What’re you doing?’ she said
‘Sitting ’ere. What’s it look like?’
She didn’t know what to say.
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Just looking,’ she said. Flustered, she added, ‘at the chickens.’
‘There ain’t no chickens,’ the boy pointed out. ‘They’re all outside.’
Again, she could think of no reply to this irrefutable truth. He wanted her to go away and leave him alone, she thought. She was about to go, when he said, ‘Wanna come and sit ’ere?’
He patted the ground next to him. ‘All right.’ Evie was warmed by this invitation.
The boy shuffled up a bit. ‘I got this mat, see.’
As Evie sat down, she felt it under her hand: the grubby flatness of an ancient doormat. Her shoulder came into contact with his. He smelt of stale wee and something sweet, sickly. Now that she was sitting, enough light was seeping through the doorway for her to see the outline of him, his pointed features, skinny legs, the scruffy hair, specs. They had a big lump of something at the corner, as if a fat insect was perched there.
‘What’s that on there?’ she said, pointing.
‘String,’ he said. ‘Well, cotton – sort of. I broke ’em.’
He seemed friendly, she thought. At least he had let her sit there.
‘Why’re you sitting here?’ she persevered.
‘It’s my place.’ He turned to her. ‘You won’t tell?’
Evie shook her head. She didn’t know who he thought she might tell.
She felt as if she was talking a lot. With most people it seemed safer to keep quiet but with the boy she felt somehow she was the one who needed to start things off. She realized she felt safe with him.
‘Those all your brothers you live with?’ she said. She had seen a lot of boys coming and going. There seemed to be so many of them and she could not tell them apart. ‘How many brothers you got?’
‘Seven.’
‘No sisters?’
‘No.’ He considered, then said, counting on his fingers, ‘There’s David, then Tony, then Paul and Ron – they’m twins – then me, then Frankie, then Carl and the babby’s George.’
‘Cor,’ Evie said. ‘All boys!’ She thought of what she’d heard about the Knights. Have you got a mom?’
A brief pause, before he shook his head.
‘She dead?’
He nodded.
‘What she die of?’
He didn’t answer. He shrugged off the question, staring ahead of him.
‘I had some toffee,’ he said, ‘I’ve ate it all, though.’ He bared his teeth at her as if this was proof. The two top middle ones were missing; the rest were small and somewhere between grey and black. His breath smelt of toffee. ‘But I’ve got my things in here,’ he added quickly. ‘D’yer wanna look?’
Evie agreed, eager at this sign of friendship. He seemed to be keen to please her, the way she was always trying to please everyone as well.
The boy untied a rag he was holding cradled in his lap and brought out his treasures one by one. ‘My car . . .’ The toy looked very old and had no wheels. ‘My ciggie cards . . .’ A dog-eared, ancient little bundle. ‘Fag ends . . .’ A handful of stubs. ‘And my conkers . . .’ A handful of dry, wizened things. ‘I don’t want any of that lot taking ’em off me.’
Evie was about to ask who, again, when voices erupted into the shelter, and giggles. It was too late to move.
‘Come on, Dor. In ’ere!’
‘Ooh, no, Terry, you sure? It’s all dark and dirty in here.’
‘Dark and dirty – ooh, that’s good!’
There was laughter, and more giggles from the girl.
‘Come
on,’ the lad wheedled. ‘It’s all right. Just come ’ere.’
‘Oh, I dunno . . .’ She seemed ready to leave. ‘Can’t we just go to the park, by the rezza or somewhere nice, where it’s sunny?’
Evie and the boy sat still, hunched together in the corner, both petrified. Their eyes met in the gloom. They both knew to keep as quiet as the grave. The two who had come in were much older than them; the lad with very dark hair, the girl’s long and lighter. She was wearing a pale frock with a zigzag pattern on.
‘Come on, Dor. It’s all right in ’ere.’ The lad pushed her up against the wall and clamped his mouth to hers. The girl made muffled sounds of protest and freed her mouth.
‘Not so hard, Terry! That’s not nice. Kiss me nicely.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. It went quiet for a bit, but for a few scuffling noises. It seemed a long time to Evie, sitting there, hardly breathing. After a few moments there were more squeaks of protest from the girl.
‘That’s enough.’ She sounded indignant now. There was a slapping sound. ‘Don’t push it. What if someone sees?’
‘Nah,’ the boy said. ‘They’re all in having dinner. What d’yer mean, push it, any’ow? It’s what you want, ain’t it? You’re leading me on, Dor, what’m I s’posed to do? You’ve got me all steamed up now.’
‘You’re s’posed to behave like a gentleman,’ the girl said haughtily. ‘Not keep shoving your hands at me like that.’
‘Oh, Dor, go on.’ His voice softened. ‘You’re a cracker, you are. You’re the best girl I’ve ever seen. You are, honest. You get me so’s I can’t even think straight.’
There was another giggle.
‘Come on, you like that . . . Just let me ’ave a feel . . . That’s it.’ There was a gasping noise. ‘Oh Dor! Go on, just lie down with me here – be with me, proper like.’
‘No! Are you mad, Terry! In this hole of a place! Get your hands off!’
‘Ah, come on . . . Don’t keep being like that.’ He sounded angry. ‘All right then. If yer not gunna lie down, I’ll just have to . . . I can’t wait for yer, Dor . . . You’re leading me on . . .’
There was a scuffle, the girl’s voice rising higher. ‘No . . . NO, Terry! What’re you doing?’
Then she was muffled, her sounds turning to grunts of indignation, then, perhaps, pain. Evie kept her head down, terrified they might see her pale hair, but the man’s back was to her and he was shoving himself hard against the girl who was pressed against the wall. He had his knees bent and seemed to Evie to writhe, making those noises she heard from Mom and Dad’s room. She squeezed her eyes shut.
The noises quickly reached a climax and it went very quiet. Then they heard the girl crying.
‘You’re horrible, you are, Terry Wall. I ain’t never going anywhere near you again. That hurt, and you’ve made me all wet and disgusting. No, don’t touch me – get off!’ It was a shriek.
‘Shh, Dor, for God’s sake. I’m sorry – I thought you wanted it. You did . . . you know you did, the way you was carrying on.’
‘I told you I dain’t want to go all the way,’ she sobbed. ‘You made me. What’m I going to do now? You’ve stolen my . . . my virtue!’
The boy sniggered. ‘Virtue!’
‘Yes.’ She was hurt and sobbing, wiping at her legs with the skirt of her dress. ‘What if I’m . . . you know . . .?’
‘What?’ He was trying to touch her and she kept pulling away.
‘In the family way?’
‘Oh, you’re not. Don’t talk daft. And don’t go blabbing about it.’
‘I hate you. I don’t ever want to see you again!’ she sobbed and ran off, out of the shelter. They heard her tripping tread disappear along the entry.
‘Stupid cow,’ they heard from the boy. He was straightening out his clothes. Then he was gone too, a brief shadow in the doorway. They heard the sound of his retreating footsteps.
Evie and the boy looked at each other at last. It felt wrong, being there, hearing all that, and she didn’t know what to say. A second later, though, she heard a snicker from her right. His eyes met hers and they both started giggling. They knew something wrong had happened, something forbidden and adult that wasn’t funny. But they knew that adults were usually cruel and ridiculous and did unpredictable and bad things and they couldn’t seem to help themselves. His pointy face crinkled up when he laughed, wonky and likeable, and the sight of it made fizzing giggles bubble up in her. Soon they were both shaking with laughter though hardly knowing why. The boy’s shoulders shook and his specs slid down his nose so he had to push them up.
‘I’d better go,’ Evie said in a bit. She struggled to her feet. Her legs were cramped from sitting all clenched up and her belly ached from laughing. She felt odd. Disturbed and shaken but better, all at once.
She expected the boy to say nothing, but as she was beginning to move away, he said in a rush, ‘You’ll come back, won’t you? Sometime?’
Evie turned. She nodded.
‘This is my place,’ he said. ‘But you can come in.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Gary Knight. What’s yours?’
‘Eve Sutton. But they all call me Evie.’
Then she stepped out into the afternoon, feeling as if she had been in the shelter for days and as if she now had somewhere to go.
Seven
February 1954
‘Oh Evie,’ Shirley whined. ‘Don’t go out. S’freezing out there. ’Ere . . .’ Her voice was wheedling now. ‘Come and play Happy Families.’ She produced a pack of flimsy, dog-eared cards.
Evie stood with one hand on the door latch, two fingers in her mouth. She was almost lured in. It wasn’t often Shirley offered to play with her. But Shirley was only sucking up to her because Rita was out.
‘Can’t.’ Evie spoke with a mixture of regret and triumph. It felt good to be able to turn Shirley down, not always to be the one begging. Even so, those brief times when anyone at home chose to be nice to her were to be treasured. She twisted her mouth into a half smile, still trying to keep Shirley in a good mood with her. ‘Gotta go.’ Shirley scowled and Evie pulled the door open quickly.
Days-old snow was piled in brown heaps along the pavements and sagged down the slate roofs. Nearly all the neighbourhood children were out, hurling tightly packed balls of ice. There were yells and shrieks of pain. Evie had no coat and she pulled her cardigan round her, looking for Gary. Skinny, funny Gary Knight who had become her best friend. Gary who was nearly a year older than her, even though he looked such a tiddler. She soon saw him skulking along on the other side of the road, with the odd, almost crab-like walk he had, his left side leading. He moved along close to the walls of the houses opposite, as if he thought this would make him less visible. His little brother Carl was with him.
‘Oi, Ducky!’
A lump of snow came flying across at him. Gary flinched out of the way and the icy lump hit Carl in the side of the face. Carl clutched the side of his head and started snivelling. Unlike most of the Knight boys, Carl was big for his age, sallow-skinned, black-haired and solid. But he was special; young for his seven years. He was like a giant toddler.
Evie hurried over to them.
‘Hey, Ducky!’ shouted the boy who had thrown the snowball. ‘That was meant for you, not your little brother!’
Evie could hear a rough apology in the boy’s voice. The lads teased Gary mercilessly, called him ‘Ducky’ or ‘Duck’s Arse’ because of the odd, pointed-at-the-back haircut one of his brothers had inflicted on him. And because Gary was just Gary – off-centre and easily bullied. But it was different with Carl, who was like a big, sweet puppy. Usually the other lads teased him more gently or left him alone.
‘Come on, Carly,’ Evie said, enjoying feeling like a big sister, as she often did with Carl. ‘It’s all right. ’E never meant to ’it yer.’ With her sleeve she wiped the boy’s pudgy face. His ear was red and sore looking. She could see the usual Knight tidemarks up his neck and a worm of gree
n snot trickling from his nose. ‘Look what I’ve got.’ She fished in her pocket for three sticky pieces of cough candy. She loved the pungent taste of it. ‘Look, one for you, Carly.’
She handed one to Gary. Carl took his and stopped crying immediately. He grinned at her, cheek bulging, slug trails of tears down his ruddy cheeks. All their hands were mauve with cold. Gary and Carl were both in short trousers. Carl’s always had rings of wee round the crotch in varying degrees of dryness, like the rings in a tree trunk.
‘Ta,’ Gary said contentedly.
He was looking a bit better since his hair had been cut and Stanley Knight, his dad, had been forced to go and get him some more specs when the frames of his had fallen apart and he’d spent weeks squinting and bumping into things. Glasses – for free! The new ones were round, the same as the old ones, but without the lump of string holding them together.
The three of them cowered at the edge of the games, as they usually did, hoping no one would notice them, while the great mingle of children – some of them Gary’s brothers – ran and yelled along the street. Evie saw Frankie, the next one after Gary, who was ten, yelling insults at some other boy. Frankie was always in trouble, walking into fights and pranks as if through an ever open door. The twins, Paul and Ron – not identical but both with the skinny, runtish looks of most of the Knights – were out there trying to push a tray along the lumpy pavement. They were fourteen but looked younger.
Anyone who mentioned Carl, or any of the Knight children, nearly always followed it up by saying regretfully, ‘That poor Cathleen.’
All Evie knew was that Cathleen Knight, Gary’s mom, had died having the youngest child, George, who was now going on five. She had left her husband Stanley a widower, with eight children – all boys. It was generally agreed that Stanley Knight, a thin, drooping man with an equally drooping personality and watery eyes, was not well cut out to be the head of a household even under more hopeful circumstances, let alone with no wife.
‘Dreadful man,’ was all she ever heard Mrs Waring say about him. Evie had heard her add, mysteriously, ‘Someone ought’ve tied a knot in it, that they ought.’ Whatever that meant. Mr Waring called him a ‘feeble bloody specimen’.
