She counted out the money, leaving only a little more than a pound in her purse. She picked up the tickets and turned. Harold had gone.
‘I’ll kill him,’ she muttered. ‘Kill the little bugger dead.’
Tugging the suitcase she went outside the station and looked swiftly both ways. She thought she would cry; she left the case and went on to the platform, working her way around the people and their belongings. There was no sign of Harold. Now she was in tears. A policeman, peacefully pacing, asked her why. ‘I can’t find my boy,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t want to go to Northampton.’
He raised his eyebrows below his helmet. ‘Northampton? Never been there myself. Not that far north.’ He surveyed the platform. ‘Here’s the train now. You might find him when there’s not so many on the platform.’
Doris began calling over the heads of the people. ‘Harold! Harold! Where are you, Harold? We’ll miss the train!’
They missed the train. It steamed in and then steamed out, crammed with evacuating people. Doris stood forlornly, tears wetting her cheeks, and watched it go. ‘I’ll murder him,’ she sobbed to herself.
The policeman appeared sedately. Only a porter and Doris were on the platform now. ‘He didn’t turn up then,’ he said as if he had solved a mystery. ‘So you’ve missed it.’
‘I’ll have to go home,’ she said. ‘And I’ve locked everything up.’
‘Next train is twelve thirty,’ said the man.
‘It’s too late,’ she said but only half sadly. ‘Perhaps it was meant to be.’
‘Some things are,’ said the policeman. He began to rock slightly on his heels. His helmet slipped and he righted it. ‘Northampton could be bombed as bad as here. Them bombers will always get through.’
She regarded him as though he had inside information. ‘And this invasion business,’ she shrugged.
‘The invasion as well. That won’t be long.’ He patted the huge, polished revolver holster at his waist. ‘I’m ready for them.’ He seemed to extract himself from his thoughts. ‘I don’t know about your boy,’ he said. ‘He’ll turn up. We can’t go looking for him, not with the war situation. We’re too busy all round.’
Doris sniffed. ‘I can’t just stand here waiting for him.’
‘I’ve only got my bike,’ he said. ‘Or I’d give you a lift to the police station. Why don’t you leave your suitcase and go down on the bus. There’s no harm in reporting him missing. What’s he called?’
‘Harold,’ she said bleakly. ‘Harold Barker.’
Studiedly the policeman took out his notebook, licked the end of his pencil, and wrote in it. ‘Age?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Address?’
‘Twenty Seaview Crescent.’
When he had finished he closed the book with a snap like the conclusion of a job already well done.
She took her brown case to the sandbagged left-luggage office. She wondered who they thought would attack a left-luggage office. Disconsolately she walked from the station and boarded the bus outside, going to the top deck and lighting a steadying Woodbine.
She thought how different Dover looked now. There were gaps in the bombed buildings affording new views of the sea. The barrage balloons, twenty of them, floated like fat fish over the town, serene and unthreatening, and she wondered what good they did. She thought of the dead boatman they had called Darkie.
Inside the police station door, piled about with more sandbags, she almost walked into Frank Cotton.
‘That Harold,’ she sighed. ‘He’s bunked off somewhere. We were at the railway station, just about to go up to Northampton, evacuating to my sister’s, and he just vanished. Cleared off somewhere with his mates.’
‘So you missed the train.’
‘Yes. I wasn’t sure about going anyway.’
Cotton said: ‘I’m just going off duty. We’ll have a cruise around and see if we can spot him on the way. The car is at the back.’
Doris was unaccustomed to getting into cars. She peered from the window nervously. ‘You’re a kind man,’ she said as they drove from the police yard.
‘He’s an unusual kid,’ he said. ‘He should have got in the papers. Some bright spark in London decided that if the story was published about three boys capturing a German airman it would not be good propaganda because the enemy would say we were recruiting children to fight.’ He drove on. ‘When did you say his father was coming out of jail?’
‘Not too long with good behaviour,’ she said wryly. ‘First time in his life he’s ever behaved any good. But I’m married to him. One of my worries about leaving Dover was that I was leaving him down here, locked up.’
She thought she was going to cry again. ‘I don’t know what to do with Harold,’ she confessed. ‘What’s going to become of him?’
‘A world leader, I expect,’ said Cotton flatly. Their eyes were still searching the street.
‘You’ve been kept busy,’ she said eventually.
‘Spies,’ he replied. ‘Everybody’s a German spy – or so everybody else thinks. Spies and rumours.’ They drove slowly, still searching. ‘And some thieves, down from London, have pinched all the lead from the church at Stephen Street – the one that was bombed. It was all left in a nice pile for them by the men cleaning the site. And there’s been a bit of looting . . .’
He interrupted himself and braked. ‘There he is. See the kids playing cricket.’
‘Thank God,’ she said seeing him.
Cotton pulled the car over. Harold spotted it. There were half a dozen boys on a cleared area by a demolished house. They had chalked a wicket on a blank wall. Doris got from the car with Cotton and Harold looked as if he was thinking of making a dash for it. Cotton called: ‘Come over here, son.’
The conciliatory tone halted the boy. He turned and said something to Boot and Spots. ‘Come here, Harold,’ called his mother firmly. ‘Now.’
‘I’m batting next,’ said Harold.
At the top of the street Doris and her son got out of the car. Harold stood disconsolately on the pavement tugging at the top of his khaki shorts. He undid the snake buckle of his belt and did it up again.
‘Thanks,’ Doris said to Cotton. ‘That’s very kind of you. Again.’ She hesitated. ‘I’m glad you didn’t drop us outside the house. Neighbours talk. You’re a kind man.’
Harold sniffed and said: ‘Thanks, mush.’
Cotton replied: ‘Now you listen to me, mush, don’t you cause your mother any more bother by running off and all that. It’s very worrying for her, especially the ways things are and . . .’ He hesitated. ‘And your father being away.’
‘All right,’ said Harold. ‘I won’t any more. I just didn’t want to go to that crummy Northampton, that’s all.’ He looked at his mother. ‘And she didn’t neither.’
Cotton drove away with a wave. Doris said again: ‘He’s a kind man.’
‘For a copper,’ said Harold.
Before they reached the gate he asked: ‘Where is my dad, anyway?’
She halted and stared at him. ‘In the army,’ she said. ‘In Africa.’ She glanced about them, pushed him forward and unlocked the front door.
‘Whereabouts in Africa?’ he persisted when they were in the passage.
‘Somewhere,’ she said. ‘I don’t know exactly.’ She sat sadly on one of the wooden chairs and he, as if he knew a moment had arrived, sat opposite, his bony elbows on the table. She went on: ‘You’re not allowed to know where. Somewhere fighting.’
‘I had a fight with a kid,’ he said showing her skinned knuckles. ‘Down the town. I missed his head and hit a wall. But I got him the next time. He said my dad was in prison.’
She felt the shock fill her face. ‘Prison? Why . . . why would he say that? Your dad’s in Africa. In the army.’
‘Terry Bannister reckons he’s inside Maidstone,’ he told her calmly. ‘That’s why I punched him. His father’s been in there and he says he saw my dad there. His old man’s out now.’
&n
bsp; Doris said faintly: ‘He’s lying . . . your father is fighting . . . for his country . . .’ She halted and put her face in her hands. ‘He’s in prison,’ she confessed. ‘I didn’t want you to know.’ She lifted her damp face.
He said: ‘You should ’ave told me. I’ve always wanted to ’ave a look inside a prison. What’s he in there for?’
‘He did a burglary.’
Harold’s face lit up. ‘Crikey, did he! Did he get much?’
‘Three years.’
‘Can I go and have a look?’ he asked eagerly. ‘Is he behind bars, in a cell?’
‘They won’t allow you in there. You’re not old enough. I wouldn’t want you to see him anyway.’
She stood and went to fill the kettle. She took a slice of cake from the tin and handed it to him. He bit out a big piece. ‘Not old enough,’ he groaned, cake crumbs falling from his chin. ‘I’m not old enough for anything. We wanted to fight against the Jerries but we’re not old enough. I can’t get in the prison. Not old enough. There’s nothing I’m old enough for. Not even women.’
‘Women!’ She was about to eat a piece of cake herself. ‘What do you mean . . . women?’
For once Harold looked embarrassed. ‘Well, girls.’ He tugged at his belt and then his khaki shorts. ‘I want some long trousers,’ he said. ‘Next time I want some long trousers. I’m nearly thirteen. My willy hangs down the leg of these.’
‘I’ll get you some more underpants. You know we haven’t got much money, Harold. The train fare cost me one pound ten and then we didn’t go. I suppose they’ll refund it.’
He brightened. ‘We’re definitely not going to Northampton after all?’
His mother sighed. ‘No, I suppose not. Your auntie will be glad.’
‘Uncle Eric won’t. Last time he was here he kept sticking his hands up my shorts. And he niffs of pigeons.’
Chapter Six
OUTSIDE THE PRIORY station Sergeant Dunphy stood at ease, stainless as always, glancing down at his brasses, moving a few inches so that he was reassured by them catching the Dover sun. He took off his beret and – as if it might have somehow gone out of shape – scrutinised the Royal Engineers badge before repositioning it exactly on his close-cut hair. He was a deep believer in first impressions, especially with young soldiers. He checked his H. Samuel Everight watch. Soon they would be there, his new recruits green from the training depot.
He was at attention on the platform when the train steamed in but his heart fell as they began to empty from the carriages. ‘Jesus,’ he said softly as a prayer. ‘What a gobbin’ sight.’
There were twenty of them, pasty-faced to a man, some not even upright, almost falling off the train like shipwrecked sailors desperately reaching a shore. They flung their kit before them. The sergeant stamped along the platform. The porter looked sympathetic. ‘They don’t look much, do they, sarge. Like they’ve been struck.’
Dunphy snapped an order but there was scarcely any response. The trembling men stood clutching the Southern Railway green iron ornamental columns holding up the roof. Dunphy picked out a lance-corporal, taller it seemed, though bent almost double on one of the benches. ‘It’s the hab-dabs, sarge,’ the man muttered. ‘Last night’s grub. It’s been murder on that train.’
Some men had found the station lavatories and were crowding desperately into them like men pushing in to a football match. ‘They can use the ladies,’ said the porter considerately before frowning. ‘As long as they aim straight.’
‘I’ll send a fatigue party up,’ promised the sergeant. ‘What’s your name, son?’ he asked the soldier.
‘Ardley, sarge.’
Dunphy said: ‘I’d better get some ambulances here, Ardley. They can’t march through the town in this state.’
‘Everybody would laugh,’ nodded Ardley.
‘A bus maybe,’ decided Dunphy. He waited until the new arrivals had gradually reappeared from the lavatories and, whey-faced, stood in a crooked rank. ‘The runs,’ he told them, ‘is not good for morale. But it goes eventually. I am going to commandeer a bus to get you to the unit. You won’t need to march. Try to control your bowels, men.’
Getting the bus took only half an hour. By then the men seemed calmer, sitting wordless on the station seats. Two by two the lance-corporal directed them to collect their kit. Packs and rifles were piled on the platform. The Dover Corporation bus drew up outside and the soldiers filed shakily but gratefully aboard. ‘Crack troops,’ said the whiskered bus driver studying them.
‘Something like that,’ said Ardley. He sat next to Dunphy as they set off towards the town. ‘Not too fast, driver,’ the sergeant called. ‘And don’t go over any bumps.’
After half a mile Ardley muttered: ‘It pongs, sarge, doesn’t it.’
‘I’ve served in India, son,’ said Dunphy.
The bus drove through the town, among the bombed shops and houses and the people on the pavements. Abruptly there was a hoarse call from the back followed by another. ‘That cook’s going to swing for this,’ grunted Dunphy.
The man who had cried out was staggering down the aisle, his agony setting off the others. One followed, then another and another. More men tried to rise groaning from their seats. ‘Stop the bus, sarge,’ suggested Ardley. ‘Get them off quick.’
The driver looked around in alarm. ‘Stop the bus!’ ordered Dunphy desperately. They were driving by the promenade where a line of coloured beach huts was set against the sea wall. Some workmen were preparing to lift a beach hut on to a lorry. Dunphy stepped briskly from the bus and confronted them: ‘I’m commandeering these huts,’ he said. ‘Part of the war effort.’
The council workmen stared at him and then at the writhing crocodile of soldiers following along the pavement. ‘There’s no keys,’ the foreman said practically. ‘They’re all locked.’
‘Get something to open them,’ said the sergeant. ‘Or there’ll be a disaster.’ The foreman took a pickaxe from a parked lorry and ordered two of the others to do the same. While the whey-faced soldiers waited they broke the locks from the beach huts. The men rushed in. Others waited agonisingly. ‘We’ve got some newspapers on the lorry,’ said the foreman helpfully. ‘Yesterday’s, so it don’t matter.’
‘Thanks,’ said Dunphy. ‘They’ll be useful.’
He and Ardley took the newspapers and opening each of the sagging, brightly painted doors tossed them in. Then the air-raid siren sounded.
‘Which one of them beach ’uts was you in?’ asked Tugwell dolefully.
Sproston said: ‘The yellow one.’
‘Brown,’ said Tugwell. ‘Matching colour.’ They were sitting on the sides of their iron beds. Men were unpacking their kit. The section was occupying two caves in the cliffs.
‘One of those ’uts was rockin’,’ said Jenkins, a small Welshman. ‘Then the sy-reen went . . .’
Sproston said: ‘They could ’ave bombed me, I wouldn’t ’ave cared.’ They all felt better now. Tugwell looked about him. ‘We ought to be safe down in this ’ole. Not much would get through this.’ He tapped the chalk wall and a piece fell away.
Sergeant Dunphy, although he was not a tall man, had to crouch as he came through the door. ‘Stand by your beds,’ he ordered. The ten men in the cave stood. ‘Sit down,’ he sighed. ‘We don’t want you hurting your heads.’ He surveyed them. ‘The other men are up the passageway. They’ve got a higher ceiling but it’s further from the latrines.’
Lance-corporal Ardley came in. ‘I think everybody’s all right in there, sarge,’ he said. ‘All feeling a bit better.’
Dunphy said: ‘Right. Good.’ He studied the men’s faces. ‘Everybody fit in here now?’ he said. There was a mumble. He laughed quietly, shaking his head. ‘Dover Council won’t be pleased about their beach huts,’ he said. ‘But there’s a war on. They’ll know all about that because most of the war’s been down here. Any questions?’
Sproston said: ‘What’s happened to that killer cook, sarge?’
‘
The commanding officer has been in contact. The cook is on sick leave.’
‘I’m not surprised,’ said Ardley.
Dunphy still did not know all his squad. He asked each of the men his name. When he got to Jenkins the small Welshman said: ‘Ardley’s teaching me to read.’
Dunphy said: ‘It’s very useful.’
Ardley said: ‘He knows what he’s doing with explosives.’
‘He just can’t read the instructions,’ added Sproston.
‘We’ll be having training exercises, schemes,’ said Dunphy. ‘Plenty, I expect. But tomorrow you’re all on trench digging. Then it’s a matter of waiting for the Germans.’
‘And when they turn up?’ asked Tugwell.
‘You shoot them, son,’ replied the sergeant.
Ardley marvelled at the solid calmness of the Dover people. On that bright morning they busied themselves about the shops, a few sat outside the Creamery over cups and glasses, and the more elderly occupied the ornamental benches and stared out of habit to the fresh blue sea. As the soldiers dug the trenches, sweating in the promenade sun, a bow-legged man with a dog stopped and surveyed their work.
‘What’s that for?’ he enquired.
‘To bury the dead,’ replied Tugwell.
The man sniffed and the dog cocked his leg before walking on.
Their original training camp had been in the north where it was colder but safer. Up there they had never experienced an air raid. Now, as they were digging, the siren sounded. Lance-corporal Ardley ordered the squad to take cover and then looked about for somewhere to do so. There were two municipal promenade shelters, curled iron and glass, with open fronts, occupied by unmoving old people. They reluctantly made room for the soldiers.
‘We’re not used to all this,’ explained Ardley to the people sitting in the shelter. The soldiers peered worriedly at the sky.
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