by Phil Earle
Mrs F looked more relieved than anything when they passed an aviary of rather dejected-looking birds, but failed to see the funny side when Joseph compared their foliage to Hitler’s moustache.
There were camels and ponies, and snakes too, tucked away in a decrepit building (none of them venomous, much to Joseph’s disgust) and a pair of scarily thin wolves, prowling their cage at the sight of the boy. At no point did Joseph feel threatened or in danger of them, though, not when he saw inside their mouths: more gums than teeth on display.
‘So much to see,’ he said sarcastically, but again, she wasn’t biting.
‘It’s far from how I’d like it to be, but there’s little I can do about that now. My family’s run this place a long time, my father before my brother, so I owe it to both of them to have something left when this madness ends.’
‘How do you feed them?’
‘Well, they don’t have ration books, do they? So I do what I can. I forage, and I beg, and I do deals with people. Just like you’ll be doing from now on, too.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you. Which reminds me. Time to get to it. Muck won’t move itself.’
‘Muck?’ Joseph sagged, fearing what lay ahead.
‘There’s two tons of manure needs shifting from the camel enclosure. We need to get it delivered by the end of the day.’
‘Someone wants camel dung? Really?’
‘Really. There’s a war on, in case you didn’t wonder. They’ve turned the local football pitches into allotments, but the earth’s all clay and no goodness. Bit of this on it, and they’ll be growing pineapples in six weeks.’
‘So where’s your truck, then? We loading it onto the back?’
‘Trucks need petrol. And oil. And we haven’t got either. So we’ll be using the power we do have. The animals produced it, so they have to do their bit to shift it.’
This was all well and good, but camels weren’t known for their dexterity with a spade. That part was left to Joseph. He was told to shovel every last bit of manure onto two huge sheets that sat outside their cage, while managing not to upset the beasts.
‘Don’t be getting too close to their back ends,’ Mrs F instructed from the other side of the bars. ‘They’re known to kick at a second’s notice.’
Joseph didn’t reply but made two clear mental notes: to stay away from their rumps, and to wreak some kind of revenge on the woman in return for this fresh hell. But she wasn’t finished yet.
‘Oh, and be careful about the front too. They’re spitters, all of them. End up with a lungful of that on you and you’ll be stinking of it for days. Even after I’ve hosed you down.’
If ever two warnings left a boy paralysed and paranoid, it was those, and what followed was a queasy dance, with Joseph shuffling continually out of range of the camels, who looked to him simultaneously irritated and amused.
The other problem was that as jobs went, it was incredibly boring. Where was the fun in scooping endlessly? The smell didn’t get any easier to bear and Joseph couldn’t work out how the animals were pooing so much when food was so difficult to come by.
As the boredom increased, he took more breaks, his attention falling outside the bars for anything even vaguely interesting, which was how he spotted Mrs F inside Adonis’s cage, spade and pail in hand.
Letting his shovel fall into the hay, he stepped outside the cage, eyes widening.
So she wasn’t joking about cleaning Adonis out? And if she was in there, then where was the ape? There must be a way of locking him inside his hut, he thought, but then he caught sight of Adonis, loping slowly in the woman’s direction.
Joseph felt himself gasp. Had she seen? Did she know he was approaching? Should he warn her, or would that just send the ape into a dangerous funk?
All he could do was watch, holding his breath as Mrs F finally felt Adonis’s presence, dropping immediately into a crouch, sitting on her haunches, head down towards the dirt. The ape prowled closer, only stopping when he was within touching distance. He could now, quite literally, end her life with one attack, but still Mrs F didn’t move. She remained still, other than her back rising and falling with her breath.
What now? Joseph thought. How on earth was she going to get out? If she knew, she showed no signs, though she did start to make small movements that mirrored Adonis’s again: a scratch to the chest or leg. Then, a new movement, her hand in her pocket, pulling out a fistful of grass that she slowly offered to the ape as if he were a god. She did it with her head down still, and slowly Adonis took the grass, and looked at it, before pushing it inside his mouth.
When it was gone his hand snaked out once more, and patted Mrs F roughly on the top of her head, twice, before sauntering slowly away.
Joseph felt himself finally breathe out, not daring to look away until Mrs F finished the job in hand and let herself out of the cage.
He shook his head in confusion. He couldn’t decide whether the woman was unbelievably brave or stupid. Either way, he couldn’t ever imagine feeling confident or comfortable enough to do the same. Not when Adonis had taken such an instant dislike to him. It made him feel irritable, though not as irritable as when Mrs F spotted him and told him to get back to it.
He had no idea how long it took to finally finish his job, but judging by the blisters that lined his palms, it was too long. Still, at least for once he wasn’t feeling the cold.
‘Right,’ Mrs F sighed, ‘Part one done. Finally. Part two is delivery, but I’ll need to help you with that. Can’t trust you with our mode of transport.’
She walked into the cage, picking up a harness at the door. With no hesitancy she hooked it over the largest camel’s head, leading it placidly outside. Connecting two long ropes either side of the camel, she attached them to one of the sheets, creating a bizarre manure sledge.
‘Allotments are two streets away. You might get a few funny looks, but I’d imagine you’re used to that.’
‘I’m not walking that down the road.’
‘Why not?’
‘Folk’ll laugh.’
‘And?’
‘You might not care, but I do. It’s a camel towing dung, for goodness’ sake. With me at the front!’
But Mrs F was already shaking her head. ‘Do you honestly think Daphne here will move for you? The dung would be fossilised by the time we dropped it off. No, I think we’ll start smaller and work up to it, thank you very much.’
What followed next plunged Joseph deeper into despair, as Mrs F led from a much smaller cage two miniature ponies, who answered to the names of Stan and Ollie.
‘You have GOT to be joking.’
‘Have you not noticed yet I don’t do jokes?’
‘Well, whatever game this is, I’m not playing.’
‘You’ll do as I bloomin’ well say,’ she barked.
‘Or what? You’ll send me back home to my gran? Well good luck with that, we both know she don’t want me.’
The woman sighed. ‘Joseph, for the love of God. Just do as I say, will you? Just this once.’
He shook his head.
‘Look,’ she went on, ‘you don’t want to be here, I understand that, but I also know that despite what you may think about your gran, you’d rather be back home. I don’t know what she’s done to upset you so much. And I know that you’d feel closer to your dad at home, even if he’s not there. So the best way of getting you home is by playing the game. By showing your gran that you’re not all bad, that you can do as you’re bloomin’ well told.’
Joseph’s head spun. He didn’t like the way she spoke, as if she knew exactly what was going on up there. And he certainly didn’t like her talking about his dad. She didn’t know him, about how much Joseph missed him every day, nor how angry he was that he hadn’t been there when he really did need him. Mrs F had no right to bring him up. He shuffled from side to
side, steaming, feeling his fingers clench and unclench. He could sense Mrs F’s eyes on him and knew she wanted him to say something.
But he couldn’t do it. He didn’t know what words to use, didn’t think for a second that this woman would understand any more than his gran had. He was angry. In fact he was more than that, he was furious, and to his mind, he had every right to be. He just wanted her to shut up. And to make her do so, he snatched the ponies’ reins from her to show he was ready.
So, with an encouraging shout and a clout to her rump, Daphne loped into action, a fearless Tweedy keeping up momentum by snapping at her heels.
Wishing only for this day to be over, or for the ground to swallow him up (whichever was quickest), Joseph followed the same prompts as Mrs F, only to very different effect. Stan chose that moment to let go of his bladder: a yellow waterfall that added shamelessly to the crust on Joseph’s overalls.
If the boy had had any tears left in him, then he would’ve stood and wept.
6
It felt like the circus had come to town.
Joseph remembered it well. Not the show itself, Dad hadn’t had enough money to buy tickets, but the procession through town beforehand, the announcement that the greatest show on earth had arrived.
With the procession came the acts: muscular strongmen, graceful acrobats, fearless lion-tamers, and, bringing up the rear: the freaks. Bearded women, tattooed men, a child joined to its sibling at the waist, all drawing gasps and laughter from the crowd.
Joseph remembered being mesmerised by them, repulsed, confused and intrigued in equal measure, but never had he wondered how it might feel to be in the show before: to be the one being pointed and laughed at.
Today he had found out. The memory was now seared into his brain, playing on endless repeat like a scratched gramophone record, even when he pulled himself under the lukewarm bathwater to escape.
Mrs F had insisted on them both washing when they got home, and set about boiling the kettle until the tin bath steamed on the hearth rug.
She made no effort to make Joseph get in first, banishing him to his room while she ‘sorted herself out’. He retreated happily, and lay on his bed, listening to the tick of the clock and the faint wail of Mrs F singing through the floorboards. Finally, she called him down.
‘The water’s still hot, and there’s soap on the side there. Don’t be using it all, mind. That’s got to last us until the end of the month.’
Joseph shrugged. He wouldn’t put a dent in the soap. He had no desire to get in the bath at all. Instead, he stood there, motionless, only removing his clothes when he heard her bedroom door close upstairs.
He wouldn’t stay in long, he decided. Didn’t like the idea of lying in water that had already held her.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a bath. Grandma had long since given up asking him to do anything, and bathing had been way down the list. But once submerged, he had to admit that the water, still warm despite being second-hand, eased his muscles, if not his mind.
Today had been humiliating. The allotments may only have been two streets from the zoo, but it felt like miles. While Daphne made slow but steady progress with her cargo, onlookers cooing at an exotic beast in such a mundane setting, Stan and Ollie were nowhere near as obliging or awe-inspiring. They stopped whenever he drove them on, added to the manure pile more times than anatomically possible, and generally made him look like an ass at every given opportunity.
The kids standing on the street, watching, thought it was hilarious. They pointed and laughed. Some practically rolled in the gutter, though others weren’t laughing after they strayed too close to Joseph and received a well-aimed kick. It was these occasional successes that released the pressure in his head and stopped him from dropping the reins to chase them down the street.
But even now, with his head under the water, Joseph could still hear their laughter, and feel its heat on his face.
As he pushed bubbles up to the surface in disgust, though, he heard a new, muffled sound that definitely wasn’t his ears filling with suds. This was a long continual drone, which even from his position, sounded urgent, immediate.
He tried to ignore it, but it got louder and louder, until finally, begrudgingly, he broke through the surface, ears popping as the wail of the air-raid siren ripped through the closed windows.
Planting his hands either side of the tub, he made to push himself out of the bath, just as the door opened to reveal Mrs F, hair wilder than ever, plus Tweedy, seemingly revelling in the chaos.
Mortified, Joseph let his naked body fall back into the bath, not caring about the wave that leaped onto the floor as a result, and for once Mrs F didn’t seem angry, even when the boy yelled at her: ‘Haven’t you ever heard of knocking?!?’
‘No, and neither has Adolf.’ She threw a rough towel in his direction as she picked up his festering pile of clothes. ‘So wrap that round you and get out here pronto.’
Torn by not wanting to do anythingshe said, but terrified by the prospect of the world caving in around him, he pulled himself from the bath, and, shrouding himself in the towel, followed her through the back door.
Cold wasn’t the word for what hit him. So icy was the wind that he expected to look down and see the dripping bathwater turning into icicles.
It burned his skin as he staggered in her wake to the bottom of the garden and the air-raid shelter.
He’d seen them at home, of course: ramshackle affairs that looked like they’d collapse under the force of a sneeze, but it had never bothered him. He didn’t think for a second that the Luftwaffe would bother coming after them so far north. But here? This was the city, Hitler’s prime target, so he had expected something a lot more robust than what he found. There were two untidy piles of sandbags against the back wall and on top of these, a crudely shaped corrugated iron roof. On the front wall, if you could call it that, sat another sheet of metal forming a sort of door, which Mrs F was pulling aside.
‘Get in!’ she yelled, as her eyes flicked skywards.
Joseph saw little point, for all the protection it offered, but he begrudgingly did as she said. It was strange to see her flustered and nervous. Until this point Joseph had thought she could blow a Nazi bomber from the skies with her temper alone, but this was different. She was different.
It wasn’t much warmer inside, despite the small, claustrophobic space. Tweedy’s whirling tail whipped the two of them in turn, proving a nuisance as Joseph tried to pull on his clothes without losing hold of the towel.
‘Get yourself decent. We’ll have guests any second.’
Guests? thought Joseph as he wrestled his sweater on. It was hardly the place for high tea.
Just then the door flew open and in piled three shivering bodies.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ a woman sighed at Mrs F, followed closely by a tank of a man, clutching a semi-sleeping child and a lantern. They peered curiously at Joseph through the darkness, making him feel self-conscious.
‘These are the Twyfords,’ Mrs F told him. ‘Sylvie, Thomas and Rufus.’ The child wriggled in his father’s arms: the closest thing to a greeting on offer, as the adults continued to stare.
‘And this is Joseph. I was telling you about him, Sylvie,’ Mrs F continued. The two women exchanged a look that said nothing and everything at the same time.
‘Ah,’ replied Sylvie, re-examining him in more detail, before moving as far away as possible, which wasn’t easy in such a cramped space.
‘Right then, I’ll be off,’ said Mrs F, a statement so ridiculous given what was happening outside, that even Joseph challenged it.
‘Off? Off where?’
‘Work,’ she answered, incredulous that he even asked.
Joseph frowned in the half light. This hardly seemed the time to be mucking out.
‘Sylvie said you can stay here with them till it
passes. Tweedy too.’
This pulled quite a reaction from Sylvie. ‘Now, Mags, I did say that I would babysit the boy, but we didn’t discuss the dog. And you know my opinion on that.’
Joseph frowned. Opinion?
Mrs F was quick to respond. ‘Would you rather I took Tweedy with me and risk him getting hurt?’
‘I’d rather you did what most people have done, to be honest. I don’t wish to be rude, Mags, but most folk have seen it’s cruel to keep pets alive during the war. Plus, they’re hungry beasts, aren’t they?’
‘He’s not eating into your rations, Sylvie. Only mine. And I will never ever put down a healthy animal when there is no need. I don’t have time for this, Sylvie, but as you’re sat in my shelter in my yard, I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself. Now, Joseph, you look after Tweedy, do you hear? Don’t let him out of your sight. And get yourself to bed as soon as it’s over. I’ll be home not long after.’
Without a further word, and before he could interrogate her more, she threw the door open and dashed into the siren-filled night, which sent poor Tweedy scuttling to the door to try and follow.
To Joseph, it was another clear example of how terrible his life had become. The world was fighting itself, dragging the only person he cared about away from him to war. And now he’d been sent to a city where a bomb was more likely to fall than where he’d come from. Here he was, left at Hitler’s mercy in a damp, wet trench with what felt like a cardboard roof, alongside a family of complete strangers and a dog crazier than Adolf himself.
Tweedy, it seemed, agreed. Instead of calming down, he continued to spiral out of control, pawing at the mud walls like a deranged prisoner, howling when they refused to give in to his demands. Every minute or so he would stop, not because the Twyfords were shouting at him to do so, but because he kept pulling on Joseph’s sock with his teeth to join him, almost imploring him.
Joseph knew only too well what it was like to be left without a choice or a say, and he knew he didn’t like it either.
‘It’s all right,’ he said reluctantly, without adopting that babyish voice most people used when speaking to a pet. ‘She’s coming back soon.’
