The Kingdom by the Sea

by Robert Westall

  Harry looked at them, holding hands. Suddenly he quite liked them. For some reason, he felt sorry for them. He wanted to look after them.

  “OK,” he said. “Bargain. You don’t split on me to the police, and I’ll take the dog for a walk along the beach. But how do I know when half an hour’s up?”

  “Borrow my watch,” said the man. “It’s got luminous hands.” He slipped it off and gave it to Harry.

  “Don’t let the rabbit burn,” said Harry. “Put more water in from that bottle.” And then he and the dog were out in the whirling dark, with sheets of sand blowing along the beach, and stinging up into their faces.

  He walked nearly to Joseph’s cabin, then back. That gave them more time than they’d asked for.

  When he got back, they were gone. But the fire was made up nicely, and the rabbit still cooking, and they had written, with the end of a burnt stick on the concrete floor,

  Thank you, Harry Baguley.

  Harry thought with a start that the man had forgotten his watch, his superb fighter pilot’s watch.

  But they never came back.

  Chapter Ten

  It was evening again. They were sitting on the cliffs, watching the sea. Harry and Artie. So close they were touching. That was Harry’s doing; he liked to lean gently against Artie, as if it was an accident.

  The sea was up, crashing on the beach below. The sea was blue as the sky, but when the waves reared up before they broke, they went dark blue, then green, then creamy white. There were birds flying along the troughs of the waves, only feet above the water, shining as white as stars in the light of the setting sun. Artie raised the binoculars. He said the binoculars really belonged to the officer, but the sergeant took care of them for the officer, and had loaned them to Artie as a special favour.

  “Just gulls,” said Artie, in mild disgust. “Lesser black-backs.” He handed the binoculars to Harry, who had a look just the same. It made him feel important, handling the binoculars, which had WD stamped on them.

  Artie knew all about birds; and foxes and stoats and weasels. Artie knew all about the land, and Harry knew all about the sea, from Joseph. They told each other things; fair exchange no robbery.

  “We mustn’t be late,” said Artie. “I’ve got me kit to do. And we don’t want your mam worryin’.”

  Harry wriggled uncomfortably. That was the one worrying thing about Artie; he was always going on about Mam and Dad and Dulcie. As if he wanted to meet them, get to know them, be accepted by them. Harry hated lying, making excuses why Artie couldn’t meet them. But what could you do?

  “I shall come back here, after the war,” said Artie. “Bring Dot and Keith for a holiday. You’d like our Keith You’d get on well. He’s a little monkey, just like you. God knows what you’d get up to together. D’you think you’ll go on living here, after the war?”

  “Dunno,” said Harry, stamping down hard in his mind on this lovely impossible dream. “We haven’t won the war yet. D’you think we’re going to win?”

  “I had me doubts in 1940. But now, with the Russians and the Americans, yes, we’ll win in the end. Muddle through, like we always do, I expect. I swear that’s an eider duck with her ducklings, out there.” He grabbed back the binoculars.

  They watched the duck land through the breakers; Harry was terrified for the ducklings. They were so small, and the waves were so big and rough. The last duckling was too slow, was pulled back to sea by the undertow three times, struggling frantically, while the duck heedlessly walked away with the rest up the beach. Harry’s heart was in his mouth. He knew how helpless and desperate the duckling must feel. As he watched it struggle, he was the duckling. At last it escaped the tugging waves with a final terrible effort, and scooted after the rest of the family. When, at last, it rejoined them, Harry heard Artie give out his breath with an explosive sigh.

  “Bad mothers, eider ducks. They lose a lot of chicks doing that kind of thing. Nature’s very cruel.”

  “Aye,” said Harry.

  “Bloody Corporal Merman comes back from leave tomorrow,” said Artie. “You’ll have to watch it at the barracks. Try not to get across him. Miserable sod. I don’t know why God makes people like that. A misery to himself and others.”

  Harry felt his stomach squeeze tight. It had been such a great fortnight. All the fun in the barrack room. The lads shouting for him.

  “Where’s that young Harry?”, “Haaarry… Haarry! Nip down the NAAFI for me, kid, will you? Twenty Capstan Full-Strength and a quarter of mint humbugs?”, “Our Harry’s a-going to be a soldier, when he grows up, in the Ar-tiller-ey!”

  Even the sergeant had rolled in one night, mildly drunk from the sergeant’s mess at the airfield, and put Harry through his drill with comic gusto.

  “Stannart ease… tenshun… left turn, left turn, right turn, about turn… wait for it, wait for it!”

  He belonged; belonged to everybody. But there was no one like Artie, the walks alone with Artie.

  “Hey,” said Artie with a squeak. “Gannets!” Again he grabbed the binoculars off Harry’s lap, and turned the focusing-wheel rapidly. “Yes, yes. Just out beyond that red marker-buoy down the coast. They’re diving; diving for fish.” Artie had leapt to his feet, and Harry with him. “Here, look!”

  Harry twiddled the focus-wheel. Got a brief close-up of old Joseph’s cabin, with the chimney smoking, then swivelled out to sea. Just in time to see a huge white yellow-tipped gannet fold its wings and fall like a Stuka dive-bomber. It hit the water like a dart, vanished with hardly a ripple, and then the sea boiled and the gannet was struggling back into the air with gangling, waterladen, furiously beating wings.

  And another. And another. “Cor,” said Harry, and moved outwards for a better view. He heard Artie shout a warning, and at the same moment, the grass and soil under his left foot gave way. He dropped the glasses, saw Artie’s outstretched hand and grabbed for it, touched it but couldn’t get a grip, and the next minute he was falling, falling.

  Something hit him a terrible blow on the back of the neck, a pain shot up his left leg, then he was staring up at Artie’s tiny head peering down, far above, on the cliff top.

  “Don’t move,” shouted Artie. “I’m coming down.”

  He just lay and watched Artie placing his hobnailed boots ever so carefully, as he came down the cliff.

  “Anything broken?” asked Artie, touching him anxiously all over.

  “Gotta headache.” Harry raised both his arms and waggled them. Then he waggled his legs. Everything seemed to be all right.

  “How many fingers am I holding up?” asked Artie.

  “One, stupid.” Harry giggled with relief.

  “D’you think you can try to stand?” Artie helped him to his feet.

  “Fine,” said Harry. Then tried to take a step forward with his left leg. As he put the weight on the foot, he shouted, “Ouch.”

  “What is it? Your ankle?”

  “Be all right in a minute,” gasped Harry, gritting his teeth, and taking three more steps. “It’ll wear off.” But it didn’t.

  “You’ve either sprained your ankle or broken it. I’d better get you home, and your mam can call the doctor.

  “No… no,” said Harry.

  “What you mean, no, no? I can carry you easy. You’re no weight at all. I’ll give you a piggy-back. Just tell me where to go.” Artie picked up the fallen binoculars, gave them a quick once-over, and hung them round his neck. “I’ll go along the beach to that low place where there’s a path. The dog’ll follow us along the cliff.” He slung Harry on his back as easy as if he was a sack of potatoes.

  And so they went, the smell of Artie’s hair in Harry’s nostrils, the smell of tobacco and sweat, the best most homely smell in the world. Except they were going to…

  “There’s our cottage,” said Harry, as the pillbox came in sight. “I can walk from here,” he added miserably. “Put me down.”

  “Not on your nelly, son,” said Artie. “I’ll see you safe h
ome with your mam, and tell her what’s happened…” His head was down, with the effort of carrying Harry. He didn’t see the “cottage” fall apart bit by bit, as they got nearer; the slates off the roof, the peeling painted brickwork that Harry saw.

  “We’re here,” said Harry bitterly. Artie put him down and looked up.

  “A bloody pillbox! Is this your idea of a joke? Stop mucking about, Harry lad. It’s getting late.”

  “This is where I live.”

  “With yer mam and dad?”

  “I haven’t got any mam and dad.”

  “Well, this beats all,” said Artie, sitting back on his heels and scratching his head. “You’re a good plucked ‘un,” he added, surveying the swept floor, the big pile of dry sea-coal and wood, the heap of newspapers and the row of bottles of water. “What you sleep on?”

  “My stuff’s hidden in the roof. Can you get it down for me?”

  When Artie had got it, he said admiringly, “You’d make a bloody good spy. You’ve got everything to your convenience here.”

  “I manage.”

  Artie’s eyes flared in alarm. “Aye, but you can’t manage now. That ankle could be broken. You could be suffering from concussion. You should be seen to by a doctor, mebbe in the hospital.”

  “If you split on me, it’s the end of everything. They’ll take Don away…”

  Artie looked quite demented. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me, son! I might come back in the morning an’ find you dead.”

  Harry said wildly, “I’d rather be dead than in a hospital.”

  “Don’t talk so wet.”

  “Look, Artie, give me one chance. If my ankle’s no better by tomorrow morning, you can fetch the doctor…”

  They looked at each other a long, long time.

  Then Artie said at last, “Till the morning then. I’ll do up your ankle wi’ a tight wet bandage Keep it wet from the bottles. Lucky I always carry two clean hankies. You’ve got nowt here that would do. By God, that ankle’s swelling up like a football… I’ll not sleep a wink tonight, worrying about you…”

  He was as good as his word. He was back by dawn, with a flask of hot tea and plenty of bully-beef sandwiches. He prodded the ankle doubtfully. “It’s gone down a bit. I think. Doesn’t feel so hot. Try walking on it.”

  Harry walked. He had to clench his teeth, and sweat broke out on his forehead, but he walked. He would have walked if it had killed him.

  “Ye’ve been lucky,” said Artie. “I think it’s just a sprain. I’ll tie it up tight again, and you don’t move a muscle, right? I’ll be back to bring you your supper after work.”

  For four nights, and days, Harry obediently lay still. Mostly he slept; the rest of the time he crawled out into the sunshine and watched the beach and the sea. He felt oddly relaxed. It was like having a real dad looking after you. By the fourth night, he could walk quite well again. He said, “I’ll be up to see you at camp tomorrow.”

  “The lads have been wondering where you’ve got to. They’ll be pleased to see you back. It’s just as well you’ve mended. That bloody Merman’s been wondering what I’ve been up to, dashing out of camp at all hours like that… nosy sod…”

  Chapter Eleven

  The next evening, up at the camp, Harry had his first sight of Corporal Merman. Corporal Merman was sitting on his bed, opposite Artie’s. The sergeant slept in a little room at one end of the barrack called a “bunk” and the two corporals slept at the other end, to keep order. If anyone could be said to keep order.

  But Artie had been right. Corporal Merman did make a difference to the barrack room. Nobody was dancing on their bed in their shirt-tails tonight. They were all just sitting talking, almost muttering. Most of them with their backs to Corporal Merman.

  He was a tall thin man, with blond newly washed hair, and a mouth as prim as a spinster’s. His battledress trousers seemed to be made of a finer, thinner material than anybody else’s, and they had creases like knives. There was an ironing board in the space by his bed, and newly ironed shirts hung on hangers everywhere. Even his white braces seemed cleaner and neater than the other men’s. His face was long and very pale, shiny, almost as if it was a waxwork. He was polishing an already immaculate boot, but you could tell his large ears were busy listening.

  There were a few shouts of welcome for Harry, but they were a bit half-hearted.

  “Here’s my favourite boy!”

  “Nip down to the NAAFI for me, Harry?”

  “What’s this boy doing here?” asked Corporal Merman. “This is a military establishment - civilians aren’t allowed.” His voice seemed thin and weak, but it carried. There was a silence. Then there were low boos and jeers from all the way up the barrack room, an angry sound.

  “Stuff it, Merman,” said Artie. “The kid does no harm. He goes to the NAAFI for us.”

  “And a dog,” said Corporal Merman. “That’s against King’s Regulations. Does the sergeant know about this, Corporal Blenkinsop?”

  “He does, as a matter of fact, Corporal Merman.” The bunk door had opened silently, and the massive figure of the sergeant stood there, his braces hanging round his legs, and a towel round his neck. “This dog - and this kid - are battery mascots. And very popular, unlike some I could mention, Corporal Merman.”

  Corporal Merman swallowed and smiled a thin cold smile, as if he’d swallowed an acid-drop whole.

  The sergeant turned to Harry. “Nip down to the NAAFI for me, kid. An ounce of Player’s Uncut.”

  Harry took everybody’s order, and left. When he got back, the atmosphere in the hut didn’t seem any better. He gave out the things and change, but all the time he felt Merman’s cold eyes watching him. How could one man destroy the fun for so many? He didn’t want to stay tonight. He wished Artie would ask him to go for a walk. But Artie was oddly quiet.

  In the end, the incoherent Scotsman suggested a game of football. Everybody played rougher than usual, and even Harry got one or two nasty kicks, though he was sure they weren’t meant. Merman kept watching out of the open window by his bed, with a superior sneer on his face.

  Finally, he yelled at Harry, “Boy, boy come here!” Harry tried to ignore him as long as possible; but he wouldn’t be ignored. The game stopped; another silence fell. With everybody watching, Harry walked across to the window.

  “I want you to go to the NAAFI for me, boy. I need a tube of toothpaste…”

  “He only goes down to the NAAFI once. Once every night,” somebody shouted.

  “Leave the kid alone,” shouted somebody else.

  “He doesn’t really need toothpaste.”

  “Just trying to spoil the kid’s game of football.”

  “Well, will you go or won’t you?” asked Merman. He looked at Harry with pale, pale blue eyes. They reminded him of the eyes of a wolf he’d once seen at Edinburgh Zoo. He felt that if he went the errand for Merman, he’d somehow be in Merman’s power. And that was the very last thing he wanted. He never wanted to go near Merman ever again. Merman made him want to shiver.

  “Gotta get home to me mam,” said Harry, and walked away.

  “I’ll remember that,” said Merman.

  “Goodnight, kid,” shouted the football players. And went back to kicking the deflated ball about, miserably.

  The next day was Saturday. Harry went across to the barrack in the afternoon. As he approached the door, it seemed unusually quiet. But he walked in anyway, and then he wished he hadn’t.

  There was nobody there. Except Corporal Merman, sitting on his bunk.

  “Where’s everybody?” Harry faltered.

  “Your friend Corporal Blenkinsop had to march them down to the airfield for a shower. It was his turn.”

  “What about you?”

  “Oh, I’ve had my shower. I have a shower every day, if I can. What do they say? Cleanliness is next to godliness?”

  “Tell them I’ll come back later.”

  “No, no, they’ve been gone over an hour. They’ll b
e back any minute. Come and sit by me, boy.” He patted the bed beside him. “I’m expecting them back any minute.”

  Harry hesitated. One part of him was yelling at him not to go near Merman at any cost. But another part… it was creepy… wanted to make friends with Merman, get Merman on his side, so he didn’t have to be afraid of him any more.

  “I’ve got a Mars Bar here,” said Merman. “Like to share it with me? I know all you boys love Mars Bars…”

  That decided Harry, against his better judgement. He could never resist a gesture of friendship. Maybe the awful Corporal Merman was human after all.

  He sat down. Corporal Merman got the Mars Bar out of his bedside locker, put it on top, unwrapped it neatly, without tearing the wrapping paper, just folding it back like a bedsheet. Then he got out his very sharp shiny clasp-knife and cut it in nine thin slices, like a loaf of bread.

  He picked up the first piece, precisely, between finger and thumb, and held it up to Harry’s mouth. Feeding him like a baby. Harry did not want to open his mouth, but he had to. He did not like the feel of Merman’s fingertips on his lips.

  “You’re a big strong lad,” said Merman. “You’re very brown. I’ll bet you have lots of girlfriends… no? Not any? Not ever? I would’ve thought you’d have had a girlfriend by your age. Aren’t girls nice to squeeze?” He put an arm round Harry’s waist, found a fold of skin and nipped it very playfully.

  Harry wriggled violently, and Merman let go and fed him another piece of Mars Bar.

  “I’ll bet you have fun with that dog of yours though. Running about the beach, wrestling in the sand…”

  Harry had a very nasty idea that Merman had been spying on him, when he hadn’t realised Merman was there.

  “And of course you’re a great friend of Corporal Blenkinsop’s. You spend a lot of time together, don’t you? Walks in the woods and along the cliffs…”