by Nina Bawden
‘Did you believe it?’ Simon was peering at her, leaning so close that she had to look at him. His face was wide open with laughter and his eyes seemed to reflect the speckles of light from the sea. ‘You didn’t really think we’d eat you?’
‘Don’t be potty.’ Mary’s voice was so frantic, he stopped smiling at once.
‘Why did you run away, then?’ He sounded surprised: he was the sort of boy, Mary thought, who would always expect an immediate and reasonable answer to everything. But she couldn’t give him one, not now the boy had disappeared, because he wouldn’t believe her. People never believed her, she thought miserably, and of course, quite often they were right not to, since she was always making up stories. Sometimes people said, ‘Don’t tell lies, Mary,’ and sometimes, when they were kinder, ‘Oh Mary, you have such an imagination!’ As if imagination were a disease, like chicken pox, or measles.
Mary thought she wouldn’t be able to bear it, if Simon said something like that. She clenched her fists and held her breath, almost as if she expected him to.
But all he said was, ‘I’m sorry. I suppose it was the twins, then. I thought it might be. But you shouldn’t have worried, honestly. I know they’re awful, but they’re not sneaky. Least, not when they understand. They wouldn’t have said anything …’ Mary stared at him and he blushed and added, lamely, ‘About this morning, I mean …’
This morning seemed a long way away and a long time ago, like a dream she had almost forgotten. Remembering it now, Mary hung her head. ‘It wasn’t that, stupid.’
‘What was it, then?’ Simon’s voice was still patient, but Mary thought she could detect a sharper note, as if in a minute or two he would begin to get bored with this one-sided conversation.
She looked at him quickly, prepared to be angry, but he only looked puzzled and interested and kind. Suddenly, she wished she could tell him. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she said, and stood up because she couldn’t bear to sit still any longer. As she stumbled down to the creaming edge of the sea, her heart was beating fast and the palms of her hands felt sticky. Perhaps a policeman had found the boy! Perhaps he was even now shut up in jail, in a dark, airless cell! Or worse, dying in hospital with a doctor standing beside him and shaking his head and saying, Of course, if we had found him earlier, we might have saved his life …
‘How d’you know I wouldn’t believe you?’ Simon said, behind her, and all at once the guilty fears that were simmering inside her seemed to bubble up and spill over. She turned on him furiously.
‘Oh do shut up talking—talking’s no good—we’ve got to do something quick.’ Hot tears came into her eyes and blurred her vision. ‘It’s awful,’ she said, half-sobbing, ‘anything might have happened to him …’
‘Who’s him?’ Simon said, and when she didn’t answer—she tried to, but her throat seemed to have swollen up—he took her by the shoulders and shook her, quite hard. Then he let her go and said, ‘Come on, tell me! Who’s “him”, and what’s up?’
He had spoken in a jollying uncle-ish voice, as if Mary wasn’t a girl his own age, but someone much younger—Poll, say, or Annabel. Another time Mary might have resented this, but now it comforted her. His sounding so calm and grown-up brought back the feeling she had had earlier; that here was someone who would know what to do.
Once she had begun to tell him, she couldn’t get it out fast enough. ‘You know those two men the policeman took away—well, there was a boy, too—he was running on the beach and—and I jumped at him and he fell over Grampy’s stick. Then he didn’t move and I thought—I thought he was dead—and I went to find someone and I saw the men with the policeman and I couldn’t tell them because of Bill Sykes and Oliver Twist and—and then I wanted to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen—you just acted silly so—so I ran back and—and he’s not here anymore … He’s gone …’
She was out of breath and her legs felt funny, so she sat down on the breakwater.
Simon said slowly, ‘Well, he can’t be dead then, can he? I mean, corpses can’t walk!’
Having made this practical point, he stopped and looked at Mary, frowning a little. Then he said, ‘But I don’t see—I mean, what you said about Bill Sykes and Oliver Twist. I don’t see what that’s got to do with it.’
Mary smiled. She was beginning to feel ashamed of her babyish behaviour—almost crying and being unable to get her story out sensibly—and was glad to find something Simon didn’t know. She said, ‘Bill Sykes was a burglar and he always took a boy with him when he went burgling to get through the windows he was too fat for and open doors for him. Haven’t you read Oliver Twist?’
Simon nodded, but he still looked puzzled. He said, ‘Don’t you read the newspapers?’
This question didn’t make much sense to Mary—unless Simon was just trying to get his own back! But she was going to answer it, all the same, and say that she didn’t read them very often because her grandfather only took the Financial Times and that was a dull newspaper without any pictures, when she remembered that her grandfather was supposed to be blind and weak in the head as well! Things had been happening so fast that she couldn’t remember for the moment whether this was something she had actually told Simon, or something she had been going to tell him, so she shook her head and said, ‘I’m not allowed. My Aunt doesn’t allow me.’
Simon opened his mouth and shut it again. Then he said, ‘Oh. Well, it doesn’t matter. We’d better find him—that’s the first thing. If he’s hurt, he can’t have gone far.’
‘I looked in our hut,’ Mary said. ‘Only in ours, but the others are mostly shut up.’ Simon began to walk purposefully up the beach and she ran after him. ‘There wasn’t anyone else near, except the old lady, and she was asleep. And I couldn’t have told the policeman, could I?’ Simon had stopped by the hut. He didn’t seem to be listening, so she plucked at his sleeve. ‘After all, if he’s a burglar, they’d have locked him up too!’
Simon looked at her. He was grinning. ‘So that’s what you thought, is it?’ he said. And then, ‘You silly nit.’
Mary said indignantly, ‘What d’you mean?’ but he shook his head at her and put his finger to his lips.
She said, ‘Silly nit yourself,’ but softly, under her breath, because the grin had gone from his face now and he was holding his breath, as if breathing distracted him.
They both stood quiet. At first Mary could hear nothing, except the sea sucking at the shingle. Then she heard something else. A tiny, scrabbling sound …
Simon whispered, ‘Did you look underneath the hut?’
*
And underneath was where they found him, scrooged up in a tight ball and as far away from the hut steps as he could get. He made no sound or movement as they crawled towards him, just stayed still, with his knees drawn up to his chest and the whites of his eyes showing, but when they were close enough he gave a choky gasp and hit out. His fists were hard as little rocks.
They slithered backwards, on their stomachs, out of range.
‘Well, he’s not hurt as bad as all that,’ Simon said, rubbing the side of his head where a elancing blow had caught him. ‘I suppose he must’ve knocked himself out when he fell, and then come round and crawled in here …’
‘His foot’s hurt,’ Mary said. ‘It looked twisted round.’ She looked at the boy and said, loudly and clearly, as if, being foreign, he must also be deaf, ‘Does your foot hurt?’
The boy stared. He was shivering all over like a wet dog. His eyes were enormous and the colour of plums.
‘I don’t suppose he speaks English,’ Simon said.
‘Do you speak English?’ Mary asked, but the boy didn’t answer. Only his eyes showed that he had heard her speak: they moved from Simon’s face to hers. He looked very small and harmless now, but he reminded Mary of her cat, Noakes, when he had been given to her as a kitten. He had looked gentle and quiet enough, but as soon as anyone touched him, he had turned into a spitting bundle of fur and rage.
&nb
sp; ‘We better think what to do,’ Simon said.
Being bigger than Mary, he was more uncomfortable under the hut: to get out, he had to wriggle backwards, pushing with his elbows. Mary stayed behind and said to the boy, speaking quietly so that Simon shouldn’t hear and laugh at her, ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or frighten you, even. I was just being silly.’
He had stopped shivering, almost as if he understood. She said hopefully, ‘What’s your name?’ and then pointed to herself and said, ‘I’m Mary,’ but there was no response. He just watched her, and then began to cry silently. The tears that welled up in his plum-coloured eyes and slipped down the side of his nose, were shiny and solid-looking, like lumps of mercury. Almost as if someone had broken a thermometer, Mary thought.
Simon called her from outside. She said, to the boy, ‘Don’t cry. I’ll come back. Don’t be frightened. I’ll come back.’ She knew now that Simon was right, and the boy couldn’t understand what she was saying, so she spoke in a crooning sing-song, trying to calm him with the sound of her voice, as if he were a wild animal or a baby. ‘I’ll look after you,’ she said, and wished she could put her arms round him and hold him tight and safe. He was so little, so thin …’
Simon said, ‘Mary …’ and she crawled to the edge of the hut and looked up.
‘I got him an ice-lolly,’ Simon said. ‘I heard the van going by.’ Mary stared up at him, squinting because it was so bright, after the darkness under the hut, and he held out the lolly. ‘Just to show him we’re friends,’ he said.
The lolly was wrapped in paper. Mary wriggled back under the hut and tossed it towards the boy. He watched her for a minute, not crying now, and then one small, brown hand crept across the stones. He unwrapped the lolly and took a bite, his eyes still on her face. ‘Go on,’ Mary said. ‘It’s nice.’
He took another bite, and was immediately sick. Mary crawled out from under the hut, holding her nose. ‘He’s been sick. It’s an awful smell.’ She felt she might be sick herself. ‘What are we going to do?’
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Simon said. He stopped. ‘But I haven’t thought of anything yet.’
‘We ought to clean him up,’ Mary said. She fetched a bucket from the hut and went down to the sea. The sun was low and red in the sky now, and a chilly breeze whipped off the water. She climbed back up the beach with a full pail and said, ‘We’ve got to think of something soon. He’ll catch cold if he stays here all night.’
Simon bent down and called. ‘Come on now, come on out. We won’t hurt you.’
‘I don’t suppose he’ll come for you,’ Mary said.
Simon stood up. ‘Perhaps not. You try. He won’t be so scared of you because you’re a girl and smaller.’
“In a minute.’ Mary said. ‘First, we’ve got to make up our minds. I mean—what are we going to do?’ She wondered if she could take the boy home with her and then dismissed the idea. Aunt Alice got into what Grandfather called a ‘fine old state’ if someone just came to tea. Mary said, ‘Could you take him home with you? There’s a lot of people in your house, one more wouldn’t make much difference.’
‘I can’t. My Dad’s a policeman.’ Simon went red, as if this were an embarrassing thing to admit.
‘What difference does that make? When I told you about the burglars, you said I was a silly nit.’
Simon went redder still. ‘So you are. Or a plumb ignorant nit, anyway. He’s breaking the law, all right, but he’s not a burglar. He’s an—an illegal immigrant.’
Mary stared. Simon said, ‘Didn’t you really know? Not even when I asked you if you read the newspapers?’
Mary shook her head. The truth was, she was usually so busy with her own thoughts and with what was happening to her, that what went on in the newspapers, or on television, seemed boring and far away, like grown-up conversation.
Simon sighed. ‘I suppose you know what an immigrant is?’
‘Someone from another country who comes here to live. That’s not against the law!’
‘Well. Sometimes. I mean, there’s lots of people who want to come here, or go to America, because they can’t get jobs in their own countries. But not everyone can come who wants to. There’s what’s called a quota—just so many foreigners let in every year. And sometimes people who can’t get a place on the quota try and sneak in some other way. Like those two men. Quite a lot land here because it’s near to France. They get to France and then they pay someone to bring them across the Channel.’
Mary said, ‘But he’s only a boy. He couldn’t get a job!’
‘Perhaps one of the men was his father or uncle or something.’
Mary wondered if this was true. It hadn’t seemed like that. When they landed from the boat, the boy had seemed scared as if the men were strangers. And they had run off without looking back and left him behind, alone …
Simon said, ‘They were Pakistanis, I expect. My father says most of the ones who land here come from Pakistan. Or India, sometimes.’
‘What’ll happen to them?’
Simon shrugged his shoulders. ‘They’ll put them in prison and then, if their papers aren’t right, they’ll send them back where they came from. It seems awful bad luck, when they’ve spent all their money to come here, but my father says it’s the only thing. He says …’
Mary said, ‘I think it’s a mean and horrible thing to do! I mean, if they can’t get jobs in their own countries, they’ll just starve, won’t they?’
‘My father says there’s no point in being sentimental,’ Simon said. ‘It’s just the law. People have to stick to the law.’
He sounded so calm. As if he didn’t care at all. Mary looked at him—and felt her skin begin to crawl with panic. She had been wrong about Simon! He might know what to do, but not in the way she had meant. He wouldn’t help her to hide the boy! His father was a policeman! He would go and tell his father, because it was the law, and they would take the boy away and put him in prison.
She said, ‘You better go. Just forget about it and go.’
‘What’s up with you?’ He looked dumbfounded.
‘Just that I’ve changed ray mind. I’ll look after him. You don’t have to help. I don’t want you to.’
‘But what’ll you do?’
‘Mind your own business.’ Mary stamped her foot. She could feel a fine, healthy rage burning up inside her. ‘It’s better you don’t know, isn’t it? After all, it might be against your precious, rotten law, mightn’t it? I might be doing something wrong! And you’re such an awful prig, you wouldn’t really want to know!’
There was a twitch at the corner of his mouth as if he were trying not to smile. He said, ‘You know, you did ask me …’
‘That was before I knew your father was a policeman!’
For some reason, this went home. He said, ‘All right, then,’ and turned on his heel. The back of his neck was bright red as he walked away.
Mary called after him, ‘If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you,’ but he didn’t turn round.
She waited until he had disappeared, then she bent down to peer under the hut and call to the boy. He wasn’t at the back anymore, but near the steps. It startled her to find him so close: it was almost as if he had been listening. She said, ‘Come on now, it’s all right, he’s gone.’
She put out her hand towards him and, rather to her surprise, he took it and let her help him up. Standing, he was almost as tall as she was, though thinner; his wrists and the bones of his face so small and delicate that she felt clumsy. She sat him on the steps and washed him with the sea water from the bucket and her handkerchief.
She said, ‘I expect you’re hungry. The first thing, I’ll have to get you something to eat. Not much, because you’ve been sick, just a little something to settle you. I expect it was the boat made you sick; I once went in a boat to France and I was sick all the time. And sometimes I’m sick for no reason at all, just over-excitement, Aunt Alice says, and it’s better up than down. You’ll feel better when you’ve had
a little sleep. You could have a little sleep in the hut, I could put towels on the floor to be comfy, and then I’ll have to think what to do, because you don’t want to go to prison and be sent back to Pakistan, do you? So you’ll have to be good and stay quiet and not make any noise and try not to be scared …’
She rang out her handkerchief in the pail. He looked cleaner now and he didn’t smell so badly, but his shirt was wet and the evening wind was flattening it against his chest and making him shiver …’
She said, ‘You’d better get out of that shirt. Wearing wet clothes is asking for trouble. I could give you my jersey. It’ll be big on you, but it’ll keep you warm …’
He was watching her steadily and she sighed. It was no good talking. He couldn’t understand, and it didn’t really help her, either: it just put off the awful moment when she would have to decide what to do.
She turned away from him to empty the bucket and to spread out her handkerchief to dry on the stones. The sun had gone now, leaving a pale, candle-yellow light, stretched out thin on the horizon. The rest of the sky had filled up with small, puffed clouds, so that it looked mottled, like marble. It must be nearly supper time, and she would be expected home. If she was only ten minutes late, Aunt Alice would worry, and if Aunt Alice was worried, she was quite capable of telephoning the police.
Mary caught her breath and turned back to the boy.
He had taken off his jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt.
For a second, the significance of this didn’t reach her mind, which was busy with the problem of Aunt Alice and the police.
Then she said, thunder-struck, ‘You heard me. All the time.’
He didn’t answer. His small face was expressionless as he slipped off his shirt and held out his thin, shivery hand for her jersey. It wasn’t until she had taken it off and given it to him and he had pulled it over his head, that he finally spoke.
