by Susan Hood
“They can’t hurt you now!” says Terry.
“Here’s one.”
Paul takes the twisted piece of metal,
but when he turns it over
a small ragged edge
cuts his thumb.
“Ow!”
It falls
and a small red drop oozes
by his fingernail.
“No thanks,” he says,
as he stuffs his finger in his mouth
and walks away.
“Paul, wait!” I shout after him.
But he doesn’t turn round.
Runaways
“Alan, let’s . . . ,” says Derek.
But Alan is nowhere to be seen.
We were so distracted by Paul
and the shrapnel,
we didn’t notice
that the little boys slipped away.
Again!
“They’re round here somewhere,”
I say. “I’ll help you look.”
“Alan! Peter!” we call,
jogging across the schoolyard.
“Maybe they’re hiding. Look behind the wall.”
No one there, except Paul,
slumped on the ground, nursing his cut.
“Paul, please help us,” I say.
“Their brothers are missing.”
Paul jumps up and follows.
“Have you seen two little scamps? About five years old?”
I ask a group of girls playing hopscotch.
“No, sorry.”
“Wha’ will I tell me maw
if I cannae find Peter?” says Billy.
“They’re probably just playing
hide-and-seek with us,” says Derek.
“Alan! The game is up.
Come on out!”
“Maybe they went inside.”
We push open the orphanage door
and peek in the classrooms.
No one.
“Could they have gone across the lawn?” asks Paul.
We gaze across the grass
leading to the open gate
we entered last night on the bus.
Cars speed down the road.
I wince to think of five-year-olds
crossing it.
“We should tell the escorts,”
says Paul.
“But Maw trusted me to take care o’ Peter,”
says Billy.
And with that, he’s off toward the gate.
“Billy, wait!” shouts Derek.
Paul and I have no choice but to follow.
Sanctuary
Paul stops short.
“I heard laughing,”
he says, turning round and
gesturing to a large willow tree.
Pushing aside the leafy branches
spilling to the ground,
we peer inside.
Peter and Alan are sitting
on either side of one of the lady escorts.
They lean on her shoulders,
smiling up at her with adoring eyes.
She’s telling them a story.
“Hello, lads!” says the lady.
“Want to join us?”
“Derek! Billy!” I shout, motioning them over.
“We found them!”
We all creep under the covers
of the branches,
and listen to the story.
It’s cozy inside.
I close my eyes
as the words run together
and ripple over each other.
I fall down,
down,
down
into the story.
I feel safe
for the first time
in a very long time. . . .
Rude Awakening
“Ken, wake up!” says Terry,
shaking my shoulder.
“You’ve been asleep forever!”
I sit up, still groggy,
yawning.
“Where are the others?”
“They’ve just gone in for tea.”
Time to eat, yes,
then I can go back to sleep.
Too much excitement,
too many strangers,
too much unknown
trigger a surprising feeling.
I realize I’m longing for home—
with all its warts—
longing for my own bed.
Sirens cut the evening calm.
Escorts shout,
“Run, children, run,”
as they spill out of the classrooms.
“Get your gas masks!”
“Take cover!”
Terry and I tumble
inside the shelter
with the others.
I ask the escorts,
“When are we leaving?
When do we get on the boat?”
“Soon, son, soon.”
Another sleepless night jammed together—
elbow to elbow,
knee to knee.
There’s no letup,
no escape from the bombs,
no matter how we try
to get away.
Bombs in the city,
bombs on the coast.
Is nowhere safe?
Little John Snoad cries and cries.
THURSDAY, 12 SEPTEMBER
Inspections
Morning dawns
with medical inspections.
“Line up, children,”
says Father O’Sullivan.
The doctor looks in my eyes,
my ears, my throat.
He listens to my heart
and checks for
sniffles, coughs, or rashes.
“No diseases must be allowed
to infiltrate the Dominion!”
says Father with a smile.
Terry whispers to me,
“I heard them say
if you don’t pass,
you get sent home.”
No way.
I’m not going back!
I’d just be a disappointment
to my parents
. . . again.
I laugh and run about
so there’s no doubt
I’m ready for anything.
I pass their tests.
So do Terry and my other friends.
Little John Snoad hasn’t slept at all
and now he has a bad cold.
But for the first time in days
he isn’t crying.
He’s all smiles.
“What’s he so happy about?” I ask Terry.
“He got his wish,” says Terry.
He’s going home.”
SS City of Benares
For the rest of us, it’s time!
We board a bus
and down to the docks we go,
singing all the way.
The bus rounds a corner and . . .
“Blimey! Terry, look at that!” I say.
“Is that our ship?”
It’s the most beautiful thing
I’ve ever seen—
this mighty ocean liner
called the City of Benares—
longer than a football field,
splendid in the sun.
She’s not a destroyer,
but a luxury cruise ship
camouflaged in a new coat of gray paint.
She looks stately, regal,
far too important
for poor blokes like us.
“Is she the one?” I ask in disbelief.
“Is she waiting for us?”
“Yes, boy, that’s our ship,”
says Father O’Sullivan.
“She’s the pride of the Ellerman line,
a British steamship
fresh from India.
And we will be joining her
on her first voyage
across the Atlantic.”
“Blimey, Terry, look!” I say.
“The size of it!”
The biggest things we’d seen
till then were the old paddle steamers
in the Thames.
We all tumble out of the bus.
Derek and his brother Alan stop short.
“Cor!” says Derek. “She’s huge!”
“Out of this world!”
says a gap-toothed kid named Fred.
“And if it weren’t for this,
we’d never see anything like it.”
“Gather round, boys!” calls Father O’Sullivan.
We’re going to board soon.”
Billy, his little brother Peter,
and Paul get in line behind us.
“How’s your finger, Paul?” I ask.
“Better,” he says, surprised I remember.
“Ready to go?”
“Ready!”
But for a moment
we stand there
at Princes Landing Stage
just staring,
breathing in the smells
of soot, salt, seaweed, and steam,
the smells of the docks,
of adventure to come. . . .
“Let’s go, boys,” says Father O’Sullivan.
With a whoop
we scoop up the five-year-olds
and I lead the way,
running
down the docks,
up the gangway
to our ship—
our new home,
our ticket across the sea.
Welcome, Young Sir!
We boys and girls are met on deck
by a gracious crew—
most of them
sailors from the East.
I’ve seen men from India
round London, of course,
but never men like these—
sailors decked out in
black shiny shoes turned up at the toes,
and white flowing uniforms,
trimmed with a turquoise sash
and topped with a turban.
“We’re in good hands, children,”
says Father O’Sullivan.
“Lascars are some of the best sailors in the world.”
We gather in a circle round them,
some kids smiling,
some hiding behind a friend,
some nervously shifting from foot to foot.
The one in charge,
a self-assured young man,
greets us each in turn
with a friendly smile,
“Welcome, young miss,
welcome, young sir.
My name is Ramjam Buxoo.
Welcome to our ship.”
Young sir?
People have called me
a lot of things before,
but no one has ever called me “sir.”
He makes me feel
like an honored guest—
ME—a poor bloke from Wembly.
I step up and say,
“Thank you, sir!”
Mr. Buxoo smiles. “This way, please.”
He gestures to the stairs
and then leads the way
to our cabins
in the aft of the ship,
down,
down,
down,
to the fourth deck—
46 boys to port
44 girls to starboard.
Cabin Mates
“Fred Steels and Paul Shearing
in here,” says Buxoo,
pointing to the first cabin.
“Derek and Alan Capel,
you’re in this next one.”
“Billy and Peter Short
and Terrence Holmes,
you’re down the hall.”
“The rest of you boys, this way please.”
I look back and wish
I could be with my friends.
“You four in here,” says Buxoo,
pointing to me
and three younger boys
I haven’t yet met.
They gaze up at me.
One hangs on my sleeve.
One has been crying
and wipes his nose with
the back of his hand.
Another looks bewildered.
I see why they put me
in charge of these lads—
they need someone older
to take care of them.
“Look at this, boys!” I say,
trying to distract them.
“Jolly good!
“We each get our own bunk bed!”
We gape at the beds
laid with geometric quilts,
the large double-door wardrobe,
shiny white porcelain washbasins,
the oversized mirror,
the sturdy chair and desk,
the striped rugs on the floor,
the carafe of fresh water
and the vase of sunny flowers—
everything much finer
than my things at home.
Best of all
we have a porthole
with a view of the sea,
a window to what’s ahead.
No more mats on the floor.
No more rats.
Compared to the orphanage,
and even my room at home,
these accommodations
are first rate!
We have our own cabin
on a great fancy SHIP.
Oi, it’s grand!
I’m going to like it here.
Time for a Tour
We troop in a group
to the children’s playroom,
gawking at the baskets of new toys.
“Where did they come from?” I ask.
“They’re donations from people
who wish you well
and want to give you a big sendoff,”
says Buxoo.
I’ve never had new toys—
couldn’t afford ’em.
Things I played with came from
the allotment field
up the street.
If you didn’t make your own toys,
you didn’t get any.
Here on the Benares,
there are shiny new trucks and trains.
Not one has a dent, scrape, or missing wheel.
There’s even a child-sized convertible
big enough to climb inside.
Its spick-and-span chrome and paint
puts my go-cart to shame.
The little children gape at
the teddy bears and baby dolls
taking tea with china cups
on a lace tablecloth.
It’s a carnival world
here in this playroom,
full of fancy silliness
we’ve never known.
A fuzzy elephant rides a scooter.
A doll perches atop a pull-toy puppy
while a toy Beefeater stands guard.
Life-size paintings of jesters
and ballerinas dance round the walls.
“Ooo! Look at this!”
Some of the littles
reach out to touch
the enormous, finely carved
red rocking horse.
“It’s big enough for three of us!”
What catches my eye
are the model airplanes—
mini replicas of the RAF planes
I’ve seen fly over my house.
I reach for one, but Buxoo stops me.
“No time now.
You must have lunch.”
Paul has to pull me away.
We continue down the halls,
peering in posh shops,
dazzling with spotlights, mirrors,
chandeliers, and candelabras,
golden statues and gilded signs
that showcase furs, satins, silks.
Paying passengers
who boarded before us
get a snip and a shave
at the shipboard barber shop
<
br /> or sway to the music of the orchestra
playing on the Verandah Café.
We pass the bustling galley
with aromas I remember
from the time
before rations.
We enter the grand dining room
with its paneled walls, vaulted ceilings,
and tall vases of fresh flowers.
Altogether it’s smashing!
My family certainly never had money
for a holiday like this!
From what I’ve seen so far,
this ship is like a first-class hotel,
luxury I’ve never known.
“It’s a floating palace
is what it is!” I exclaim.
Lunch
“This way,” says Buxoo.
“There is a special early seating
just for you
before the paying passengers eat.”
I sit down on a soft brocade chair
and stare at the menu card
and three different kinds
of knives and forks.
I’m a little confused about
what goes with what.
But no matter.
The menu says
there’s chicken for lunch.
“Chicken!” says Derek.
“For as long as I can remember,
we only get chicken
for Christmas!”
Stewards in white turbans,
blue uniforms,
white gloves,
and napkins over their arms
fuss over us.
They pour our water,
asking what we’d like to eat.
“I’d like CHICKEN!” says Derek.
Then he realizes he’s shouting
and looks down, embarrassed.
Quietly, he adds,
“Please. Sir.”
“May I have, um, um, bangers?”
asks Fred. “Bangers and mash?”
“Fish and chips is my favorite,” I say.
“Do you have that? Please?”
“Of course, young sir. Right away.”
As the plates come out of the kitchen,
I see food I haven’t seen
for months—years—
multiple courses of
filet of beef,
lobster,
shrimp.
And there’s fancy food
I’ve never known.
“Please, sir,” I ask a steward.
“What is that?”
“Caviar.”
“And that?” asks Derek.
“Foie gras.”
“And that?” asks Fred.
“Curry.”
It’s all delivered
on silver platters
lined with lace doilies.
No roly-poly here!
In fact, nothing here
reminds me of food at home
where I have to work
for every mouthful—
hoeing and weeding vegetables
in our Victory Garden,
checking the chickens for eggs,
and skinning and gutting rabbits for stew.
Here you just ask and the food arrives.
Whatever you fancy!
It’s as though Father Christmas
has set up shop
in the kitchen.
I clean my plate.
Derek really tucks in,
