Vinnie's War

by David McRobbie

  Having done enough damage, he smiled and pushed past Freddie into the post office. The door went ding, like the bell you get at a boxing match.

  ‘End of round one,’ Vinnie said loudly, so that Freddie could hear.

  ‘And I think Dobbs won it,’ Kathleen added. Freddie scowled, dropped his eyes and looked away.

  Joey said, ‘Vinnie, do you still want to see the railway? There might be a train coming.’

  ‘All right, one train, Joey,’ Vinnie agreed and sang a line from a wartime song: ‘Then it’s back to our billets we crawl.’

  ‘Bless ’em all,’ Kathleen added, and when she got back to her billet, there was a letter waiting for her.

  From London, Susannah Pearson wrote to her children in Netterfold:

  My darling Kathleen and Joey,

  I’ve been so worried about you, but your letters cheered me up. You must write to tell me everything, and I do mean every little thing.

  I’m afraid there is a problem about sending Joey’s train set and your books, Kathleen. There was another air raid last night, and our house received some damage. The ARP people won’t allow me inside until it is safe.

  As you can see from my new address, I’m living somewhere else for the time being.

  I know you love reading your Dandy or Beano, Joey dear, so I’m enclosing a postal order for you both to spend. Maybe you can buy a book, Kathleen.

  That’s all for now, darlings. Daddy’s well; I had a letter from him from Galveston, in Texas. His ship is a new oil tanker. Very fast, he says, and sends his love, as I do.

  Keep safe for your loving mother. xxxx

  Kathleen read the letter; when Joey came back from watching trains, he read it for himself.

  ‘It’s good that Mum and Dad are safe,’ he said, then, ‘Where’s our postal order, Kathleen?’

  Instead of answering, she teased him: ‘It’s some-where secret. I’ll pop along to the post office and cash it.’

  Joey persisted. ‘How much money did Mum send?’

  ‘Just you wait and see.’ Kathleen bit her lip and turned away. Their mother’s letter had been opened and the postal order removed. She’d kept this from Joey. It was one thing to leave their letters open to let Mrs Watney ‘add her own note’, as she’d said. It was something else for Mrs Watney to open letters that Kathleen and Joey received.

  Kathleen hated the idea of questioning a grown-up. She put a bright face on. ‘How were the trains, Joey?’

  ‘Big and black,’ he answered. ‘Like Dennis when he comes home after being out at night.’

  ***

  Miss Armstrong’s room was comfortable, and the air was filled with soaring piano music coming from a large gramophone. It was an electric gramo-phone in a polished wooden cabinet, not the wind-up-with-a-handle kind that Vinnie knew. ‘Come in, Vinnie,’ Miss Armstrong greeted him.

  ‘Mrs Greenwood said you wanted to see me, ma’am.’ But he wondered, Why has she sent for me? Is it about that business with the custard powder? This place is so good, I don’t want to leave. And go where? The worry showed on his face.

  Miss Armstrong faded the music, then turned off the gramophone and said, ‘Vinnie, I enjoyed your playing the other day. Beautiful Dreamer.’

  He was relieved. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  ‘I have to confess, I paused for quite a while, listening at your bedroom door.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’ Vinnie wondered how long she’d been out there.

  ‘Your friend Isaac taught you? Yes?’

  ‘Not the harmonica. I learned to play that myself. Isaac taught me the piano.’

  Miss Armstrong seemed impressed. ‘And you read music, too?’

  ‘Not really, ma’am. I just pick out tunes. Hear them, then have a go.’

  This amused Miss Armstrong. She pointed to a corner of the room. ‘Would you like to have a go on my piano?’

  Vinnie looked. This piano was entirely different from the one in the pub: it was huge and so highly polished it almost glowed with its dark beauty. ‘Is that a grand piano?’ He was in awe.

  ‘It is indeed. And you’re going to have a go on it.’

  Vinnie discovered how to lift the lid then carefully prop it open at an angle. Inside he could see the strings and the hammers, so many of them. He sat at Miss Armstrong’s grand piano and faced the keys, which seemed to go on forever to the left and the right. Vinnie read the name in front of the keyboard: Steinway. ‘Isaac had a Broadwood,’ he said. ‘He told me. In his house, in Germany.’

  ‘Some Nazi has it now.’

  Miss Armstrong nodded. ‘Beethoven owned a Broadwood. He hammered so loudly on the keys he almost destroyed it. Poor man had gone quite deaf.’ She paused. ‘Terrible for a musician to be so afflicted.’

  ‘I’ve heard about Beethoven,’ he told her. Then, as if the Steinway had invited him, he played a chord. The invasion of sound took him by surprise. Vinnie smiled, then looked at Miss Armstrong. ‘Isaac would love this.’

  ‘Then you can love it too, so play something for me.’

  Vinnie thought. It couldn’t be a pub tune, some knees-up rumpy-tump piece, not on a piano so im-posing. He remembered a sweet French song that Isaac had been fond of, so he played it through. When he finished, Vinnie was regretful, because he never wanted to stop the sounds that came from this piano.

  ‘Bravo! Vinnie, how lovely to hear my Tessie ring out again.’

  ‘Tessie?’

  ‘My piano. When the delivery men first brought her in, one of them said, Missus, that’s like shifting Two Ton Tessie O’Shea. So that’s what I call her.’ She was amused by the story. ‘So thank you, Vinnie, for your music, and the memory.’

  ‘No, thank you, for letting me play. And thanks…Tessie.’ He put his hand gently on the piano.

  ‘You’re going to come again?’ Then without waiting, she went on, ‘Of course you will; you can’t let your ability wither away.’ Miss Armstrong brought her hands together, then lifted them and kissed her thumbs. She became brisk. ‘Vinnie, you must learn to read music properly. There is so much for you to know. But are you eager enough?’

  ‘I’m eager.’ He sat nodding at the keyboard until Tessie encouraged him to play again. This time it was ‘Beautiful Dreamer’.

  ***

  Mrs Watney was in the kitchen, scrubbing a saucepan with wire wool. Kathleen steeled herself, then began: ‘Mrs Watney, we had a letter from our mother.’

  ‘So I saw,’ Mrs Watney replied, and scrubbed on.

  ‘Mum mentioned a postal order.’ Kathleen stopped herself from asking if Mrs Watney had taken the postal order. She waited.

  Mrs Watney put the saucepan down and wiped her hands. She was still not satisfied with how clean it was, so gave the surface another wipe, then said without looking up: ‘I was going to cash it for you. Give you the money.’

  At that moment Dennis came in, walking on his heels, carrying lumps of coal in a dusty sack. ‘It’s heavy, Mum. Make way for the coal man. Special delivery.’

  Mrs Watney rushed to assist him. ‘Oh, Dennis, shoot it into the coal box, darling.’

  Kathleen kept calm and waited while Dennis rumbled the coal into a brass box that stood beside the kitchen stove. Dust rose. Kathleen tried again. ‘There’s no need for you to bother, Mrs Watney. I know where the post office is.’

  Mrs Watney seemed to be totally absorbed in the coal, opening the door on the stove and adding a couple of lumps to the fire.

  Dennis said, ‘That’ll keep us going, eh, Mum?’ He looked sharply at Kathleen and added, ‘Keeps the bath water hot as well.’

  After a pause, Kathleen persisted: ‘So, Mrs Watney, if I could have it. Please.’

  Mrs Watney took the postal order from her apron pocket and put it on the kitchen table. Kathleen
had to reach over for it and found a dark coal smudge on one corner. She seethed with anger, but decided to leave it at this, ignoring the business of her mother’s personal letter being read. That was a battle to be fought later.

  ***

  Next morning, before boarding the school bus, Kathleen and Joey went into the post office. Mrs Hall greeted them cheerfully. ‘How are you settling in, my dears?’ She paused, then added in another voice: ‘With Mrs Watney?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you,’ Kathleen said.

  Mrs Hall counted out the value of the postal order. ‘Seven shillings and sixpence. My word, you two are in the money.’

  Since she was so friendly, Kathleen went on, ‘Um, can our mother’s letters be sent here?’

  ‘Of course they can, dear. Have your mother write on the envelope, Post Office, Netterfold. Please hold.’

  ‘Then we come in to collect them?’ Joey asked.

  ‘Just like that,’ Mrs Hall said. ‘Why not buy a tuppenny lettercard to tell your mum right now?’

  With some of the postal order money, Kathleen bought a few lettercards, then sent the new address to her mother. She wondered if her mum would understand why they were doing it.

  When the lettercard was safely inside the pillar box, Joey said, ‘No more snooping from the Witch of Watney.’

  Dobbs joined them from the back of the shop and they went off to the bus stop. Kathleen felt she’d won a battle.

  ***

  Dobbs had also won. Mr Preston now wore a peaked cap with a shiny metal badge on it saying ‘bus driver’. The evacuees took their seats, staying well away from the locals. The journey to school passed peacefully enough, and when Dobbs got off he said to Mr Preston, ‘We’ll want the bus after school, so don’t forget us, driver.’

  Mr Preston spoke without looking at Dobbs. ‘Yeah, just make sure you hurry up.’

  And that seemed to be the end of it – not that there was any change in the locals’ attitude, or in the bus driver’s cheerless mood.

  ***

  Mr Murdoch, deep in thought, paced the classroom floor. He looked at the ceiling, but not at the students, then asked in an ominous voice, ‘What is a dictionary?’

  Vinnie well knew what it was, but suspected a trick question. The local boys and girls were also wary. No one raised a hand. Mr Murdoch glowered and persisted, ‘Well?’ Still no one moved. ‘It’s a simple enough question,’ he declared. ‘I’ll repeat it in case you’ve become hard of hearing.’ He spaced out the words: ‘What – is – a – dictionary?’

  Around the room, hands went up, but none eagerly. Mr Murdoch pointed to Tom Bradley, one of the local boys, who stood and started to say, ‘Sir, it’s a list of words in alphabetical order—’

  ‘No, sit down!’ Mr Murdoch’s impatience grew. ‘Anyone else?’

  Vinnie was puzzled. Tom’s was the answer he’d have given. Raised hands went down. Mr Murdoch nodded to Irene, a local girl, who said, ‘You get meanings from it, sir.’

  ‘Sit down!’

  Another local boy tried. ‘Sir, it’s got all the words in the English lan—’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Mr Murdoch favoured the locals and ignored the evacuees.

  Eventually Jessie, another local girl, said, ‘Sir, it’s a book.’

  ‘Correct! That’s what it is. It’s a book.’

  Kathleen looked at Dobbs, then at Vinnie, who shrugged. The gesture didn’t escape the teacher’s attention. He stormed to the evacuee side of the room to demand, ‘Do you London fellas have something clever to say?’

  ‘No, sir. We are not clever people,’ Dobbs said in his Polish accent. ‘The Germans took over my country in only twenty-six days. So we are not clever.’

  Mr Murdoch paused, then said, ‘Well, pay atten-tion. You might learn something.’ He prowled to the local side of the classroom to ask, ‘What kind of a book is it?’

  Irene answered, ‘Sir, it’s an English book.’

  ‘Yes, yes! At last. It’s an English book. The dictionary is an English book.’

  Dobbs raised his hand. The teacher turned back to the locals. Dobbs called out in his accent, ‘Sir, if it was a Polish dictionary, then it would not be an English book.’

  Mr Murdoch spun around and yelled, ‘How dare you speak without being told?’

  ‘But it’s true, sir, is it not?’ Dobbs insisted. ‘We haff dictionaries in Poland that are not English dictionaries.’

  Vinnie joined in: ‘And what if it’s a Dutch dic-tionary?’

  Kathleen felt the boys needed support. ‘Or a French one?’

  ‘Shut up, all of you!’ Mr Murdoch bellowed.

  Then it happened. Tom Bradley also spoke without leave. ‘Scottish. That would not be an English book.’ The other locals nodded. Some put up their hands, ready to provide the names of other countries that had non-English dictionaries.

  Mr Murdoch swelled in size. He took from his desk a leather belt as long as his forearm. Dobbs had started this, and Tom Bradley had aided and abetted him. ‘Out here, you two. Put your hands up!’

  The belt swished savagely three times on Tom’s open palm. Everyone winced. Dobbs then held his hand out. He was so tall that it was almost level with Mr Murdoch’s head. He realised it was too high and asked, ‘Shall I kneel down, kind sir?’

  The class couldn’t help itself: almost everybody burst out laughing. Vinnie thought, Dobbs is out there, copping it. Tom Bradley, too, and for what? For being right. He had to join in; there was nothing else for it. He stood and asked the class, ‘Hands up who knows what a dictionary is.’

  Kathleen raised her hand, followed by Dobbs.

  ‘Enough of that, enough of that!’ Mr Murdoch made for Vinnie, but local hands went up. Then two evacuee girls raised their desk lids and banged them down loudly. Mr Murdoch tried to assert his authority, but he had lost control. ‘Shut up! You’ll all be punished! I’ll belt every one of you!’

  The slamming desk lids grew louder. Two locals joined in. Then the rest.

  Moments later, the headmaster burst through the door. The noise stopped. ‘Mr Murdoch,’ the head-master said, ‘may I have a word with you outside?’

  ‘Um, yes, Mr Boyce.’ Mr Murdoch tossed the belt on his desk and, in a distracted way, left the classroom, closing the door behind him.

  Dobbs said across the room to Tom, ‘Sorry you got the belt, when I started it.’

  Tom grinned. ‘It was worth it.’

  Later in the playground, when Jessie and Irene spun the rope and skipped to ‘Bobby Shaftoe’, it was Irene who broke off to ask Kathleen to join in. Kathleen said yes, but she only held the end of the rope. She’d never been a good jumper. Couldn’t get the timing right.

  It was late November, almost three months since the evacuees had arrived in Netterfold. The weather had grown colder and darkness came early. After finishing school, Joey often wandered down to the railway yard and stood by the fence. It was good coming here; the best place in Netterfold because there was usually something interesting going on. There was a big shed where the goods wagons were pushed inside to be unloaded; then the same locomotive pulled the empty ones out again. The railway yard was always busy, with wagons coming off one track and being shunted into another one.

  He’d asked Vinnie to come with him to watch the trains today, but as usual, Vinnie had said, ‘I have my piano lessons in the afternoon. Can’t miss that.’

  Dobbs had been the same: ‘Sorry, Joey. That’s when I help Mrs Hall and Henry sort the letters and parcels.’

  Kathleen, too, had shaken her head. ‘I’ve seen enough trains to last the rest of my life. But you go by yourself.’

  Some of the railway men on the other side of the fence were friendly and often gave him a wave. One driver of a tank locomotive always passed by holding up his fingers in a ‘V for victo
ry’ sign. He did it today, then gave a cheery blast on his whistle, as usual. It went, Toot-toot-toot-TOOOT, three shorts and one long, which everyone knew was •••—, morse code for ‘V’. Joey waved back and the locomotive puffed on, dragging its empty goods vans behind.

  When the train had passed by, a shunter stepped across the railway lines towards the fence. The man carried a long wooden pole with a hook on the end. Joey knew the shunters used the pole to couple the vans together to make a train. This shunter was Dennis Watney.

  This wasn’t so good. Dennis was unfriendly. Joey called him Dennis the Demon. Kathleen had a different name for him every day, Dreadful Dennis being the one she’d made up that morning.

  Dennis reached the fence. ‘Hullo, young Joey.’

  ‘Yes, hello.’ Joey started to move away. The fun was over.

  ‘Looking at the engines, eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The one that just went by was an 0-6-0.’

  ‘I know that. And that one over there is a 2-6-2.’ Nearly every boy in Britain knew about locomotive wheel arrangements. The famous Flying Scotsman was a 4-6-2.

  Dennis leaned on his shunting pole. ‘Did you hear that row last night? Outside our place?’

  ‘I heard some shouting. In the street.’

  ‘Big fuss over nothing.’ Dennis looked up and down the railway lines. ‘You got a train set, young Joey?’

  ‘At home in London. Not here.’

  ‘I got one. Don’t use it anymore. It’s in a cupboard.’

  Joey became interested. ‘Electric or clockwork?’

  ‘Clockwork.’ Dennis made a winding-up motion with his hand. ‘It’s a beauty. Tell you what, you can have a play with it, if you like.’

  ‘Can I?’

  From the goods shed, another railway man came out and shouted, ‘Hey, Watney. Over here!’

  Dennis said quickly, ‘I’ve got to go, Joey. Talk later, eh?’

  ‘All right.’ Joey moved off. A train set. That would be something.

  ***

  In his bedroom at night, Vinnie started talking to Isaac, in his head. It wasn’t like how it had been before that awful Saturday – lying in their beds upstairs at the pub, Isaac had used to keep up his end of the conversation, but now Vinnie was alone and all he had were thoughts.