The Kingdom by the Sea (17 page)

“I could do the washing-up,” said Harry. “I helped my mam with the washing-up. I didn’t break anything…”

“Bless the boy,” said Mr M. to nobody in particular.
“Yes, you can do the washing-up if you like…”

“And can I help you with the farm… with the animals?”

“It’s not a farm,” said Mr M. “I’ve only got four acres. Goats, hens, geese. But you can help if you like.” He seemed happier. He rattled on in great detail about goats, hens, and geese all the way home. It was as if Harry had opened a floodgate.

Mr M. was right. It wasn’t a farm; it was more like a zoo. There were three she-goats, and Harry had a go at milking Emily, the quiet one. There was also a very nasty billy-goat who spent all his time getting behind your back, so he could butt you.

“He hasn’t got a very nice nature,” said Mr M. “But he was born here, and I couldn’t bear to send him to market. He’s got a right to live, like anything else. I’m against Death.” He said it as if Death was a person, to be outwitted. And he was so against Death that he spent ten minutes in the hen-cree with a jam jar, trying to catch a wasp so he could put it safely out of the door.

“I just swat wasps,” said Harry. “But I’d never swat a bee.” He remembered spending ten minutes rescuing a bee in their kitchen at home, with a jam jar, in just the same way.

“Never kill anything you can’t create,” said Mr M. “Who gave you the power of life and death?”

“What about germs?” asked Harry. Mr M. was silent for a long time after that, and Harry was sorry he’d been so smart-aleck. But it was a happy day on the whole, because they worked side by side, never looking each other in the face. Mr M. never looked people in the face. But he talked non-stop to make up. Harry could see that he really was a teacher. And he had given all the animals names. Not just the four cats, but every goose; even every hen. He knew everything about them.

“That hen hurt her leg one night, when I left her out of the cree by mistake. She can stand on two legs, but she only hops on one.”

“That black cat is the black and white one’s kitten. He never left home. She still washes him every night, though he’s twice her size. But she gets fed up with him sometimes and bites him on the neck when he’s lying asleep.”

It was as if it was a kingdom of animals, and Mr M. was the king.

On the third morning, Harry, coming downstairs, heard a woman’s voice in the kitchen. His hand was on the kitchen door-handle, when he heard the woman’s voice say, shrilly, “You can’t
do
that, Mr Murgatroyd! It’s not right! It’s downright
wicked
!”

Mr M.’s voice was too low to make out what he said in reply.

“He must have a mother and a father somewhere! Who must be worried sick about him!” said the woman.

Harry stayed frozen, silent. They were talking about
him.

Mr M.’s voice murmured.

The woman’s voice rose higher. “You know what happened the last time. The police warned you. You coulda lost your job. You coulda gone to
prison.
”

Murmur, murmur.

“I’ll not stay in a house with such wickedness. I’m giving my notice. I’ll not be a party to it.”

There were the sounds of movement. Just in time, Harry fled back upstairs. From the top of the stairs, he watched the woman storm out, buttoning up her coat. Timidly, he went downstairs again.

Mr M. sat with his head in his hands, unmoving. Harry just stood, watching. He seemed to watch forever. He had never seen anyone sit like that.

In the end, he said timidly, “Are you all right?”

Mr M. looked up, as if he did not know where he was. He was holding a photograph in a frame. Silently, he held it out to Harry.

It was a photograph of a boy, laughing. A boy a bit older than Harry.

But he was wearing a checked shirt, a blue pullover, corduroy trousers.

The clothes Harry was wearing now.

Harry looked up.

Mr M. had his head in his hands again.

“Who was he?” asked Harry. But he knew; the boy looked so much like Mr Murgatroyd.

“He was fourth-top in his year at Dartmouth. He nearly won the sword of honour. He was only eighteen. Eighteen, five months and four days. He was a midshipman. George Frederick Murgatroyd. His friends called him Freddy. He was on the
Repulse.
You know what happened to the
Repulse?”

“I remember,” said Harry.

“They never even reached their target. Sheer waste. Sheer bloody waste.”

Then, tight-lipped, he took the photo off Harry, and put it back in the cupboard and locked the door. “Must go and see to the hens…”

“What did you nearly get put in prison for?” Harry didn’t think it was the right time to ask. But he had to know.

Mr Murgatroyd sat down again. “There was a boy. I was fond of him. He came here often. He was miserable at home. His father hit him a lot. One night, he came to me;
he was all bleeding. He said he wouldn’t go home any more. I said he could… stay here. His father came for him… I threw the drunken sot out of my house…”

“Yes,” said Harry feelingly, “yes.”

“The parents came back with a policeman… they accused me of enticing the boy… trying to steal their son. I had to let them have him. I could’ve lost my job. I could’ve gone to prison. It’s a crime, you see, enticement.”

“Yes,” said Harry.

“Why did they
want
him,” said Mr M., “if they hated him so much? Don’t they realise how
precious
sons are?” He said it softly, but it was like a scream.

Harry took a deep breath, and said, “My parents are dead. They were killed in the bombing. I haven’t got nobody.”

“It’s no good,” said Mr M. “That woman… Mrs Cleve… my cleaning lady… she’ll gossip. I’ll be the talk of the village. Somebody will tell the police… villages are like that.”

“Couldn’t you talk to her…?”

“She won’t listen to me.”

Harry got up. “Perhaps she’ll listen to me. Where does she live?”

Mr M. told him, in a low voice, then put his head back in his hands. He seemed to be beyond caring.

Harry knocked on Mrs Cleve’s front door and waited. He knocked again, but there was still no answer. But he wasn’t in any mood to go away. So he barged round the back, and found Mrs Cleve hanging out washing, her mouth full of clothes pegs.

They stared at each other. Harry thought Mrs Cleve didn’t have an unkind face; just a worried one. And, like Mam, worry would make her hasty. She would do things in a rush and be sorry after. Mrs Cleve needed slowing down.

“Please,” said Harry. “Can I have a drink of water? I feel faint.”

Mrs Cleve bustled him into the kitchen, and sat him in a chair, and made him put his head between his knees. Harry didn’t mind. She wouldn’t just chuck him out of her kitchen like she might have chucked him out of her garden. After a little while, he said he’d stopped feeling faint. Pleased with herself, Mrs Cleve said, “I’ll give you something better than water,” and went and brought a glass of home-made lemon barley. Harry sipped it slowly, playing for time; waiting for Mrs Cleve to finally get out of her flap and start to feel nosy. His dad had always said that all women were nosy.

Finally he said, “This is lovely. Just like me mam used to make.”

“Used
to?” Mrs Cleve was on to that like a flash.

“Me mam’s dead.” Harry watched the look on Mrs Cleve’s face change. He was no longer in any danger of being thought an impudent young pup, or a damned young nuisance. He was now, in Mrs Cleve’s mind, “that poor wee bairn”.

“Your mam can’t have been any great age?” said Mrs Cleve cautiously.

“She was killed in the bombing. On Tyneside. Two months ago.” Careful, don’t rush her.

“So you and your dad’ll be managing on your own?”

“Me dad was killed too. By the same bomb.” And while Mrs Cleve’s face crumpled up with horror, he added, “And me little sister.” Was it terrible, to use their memories like this? But you had to survive. Mam and Dad would’ve wanted him to
survive.

“How did you escape?” asked Mrs Cleve, a tinge of suspicion still in her voice.

“We was down the shelter. Me an’ me dog. We always went down first, to get things ready.”

“Haven’t you got
nobody?”

“Just the dog.” He wasn’t going to mention Cousin Elsie. Cousin Elsie would be a very bad mistake. “Mr Murgatroyd was very kind when the dog hurt his foot. He took him to the vet’s. He’s still there, till his foot gets better.”

“How’ve you
managed
?” Mrs Clever was really hooked now, her eyes wide as saucers, her mouth slightly parted.

“Sleeping rough. Till Mr Murgatroyd found me. He’s very kind.”

“He’s too kind for his own good,” said Mrs Cleve, her voice softening. “He’s never been the same since that lad of his was killed off in Malaya.”

“What happened to
him
?” asked Harry innocently.

And Mrs Cleve was off… Mr Murgatroyd’s long sufferings, the death of his wife five years ago; bringing up the boy on his own; the boy’s death; the other boy, the trouble with the police… And all the time Mrs Cleve’s voice got softer, and several times she paused, to wipe her eyes on her flowery pinafore. Harry did nothing but sigh and look incredulous. For hours and hours. In the end, she stopped.

Now was the crucial time. The idea must come from Mrs Cleve…

“I must be going,” said Harry. “Thank you very much for the nice lemonade.” He got up.

“Going? Going where?” said Mrs Cleve.

“Back on the road. I mustn’t get Mr Murgatroyd into any more trouble.”

“But how will you
manage
?”

“I’ll manage. I managed before.”

“But you’re only a bairn… there should be people looking after you.”

“They’d put me in a home,” said Harry. “And they’d put my dog to sleep. And the dog’s the only thing I’ve got left. Goodbye. Thank you for the lemonade…”

Mrs Cleve looked bewildered. She passed a hand across her face. “Eeh, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Little bits o’ bairns… here, sit down while I put my thinking cap on. I’ll make you a cup of tea. And there’s some seedy cake left. Eeh, have some tea while I gather me wits…”

Harry sat and let himself be fed, while Mrs Cleve bustled about saying things like, “I don’t know what the world’s coming to!” and “Hitler and his bloody Germans!” Finally she announced, “We’ll have to go and talk to Mr Murgatroyd. Hang on a minute while I put on my coat and hat.”

Harry waited, and was content to wait. Mrs Cleve was in the conspiracy now, up to her neck.

“Well,” said Mr M. when Mrs Cleve had finally left. “We’ve got our marching orders then! I gather you’re spending your summer holidays with me. Because I’m your uncle. And I’m helping you to get over being an orphan. And you might be coming to live with me permanently.” His eyes roved over Harry’s face. “What did
you
say
to her? You’ve got her eating out of your hand. Who taught you how to handle women?”

“I lived with me mam for twelve years… she’s just like me mam.”

Mr M. threw back his head and laughed. It was the first time Harry had ever heard him laugh. It wasn’t to be the last.

The best day was the day they climbed Hedgehope. They went on the bus, a little battered muddy country bus, that groaned and rattled and squeaked its way round the tight bends; with a conductor who seemed to know everybody by name, and asked about all their friends and relations. A conductor who received parcels from people who weren’t even travelling on the bus, and gave out the parcels to others who were eagerly waiting at bus-stops. Silly little parcels, like a half-dozen eggs in a bag, or a bundle of rhubarb. And he didn’t charge them anything; just doing it out of the goodness of his heart, Mr M. said. And one old man got on with a live hen tucked under his arm, a hen that watched Harry with its sharp yellow eye, and pecked at the old man’s serge sleeve with a sharp yellow bill. Another old man had a well-grown lamb that bleated all the way, and left droppings in the aisle. And everybody called to each other down the aisle, like one big happy family.

After that, Hedgehope seemed very silent, with just some invisible birds calling from out of the sunwarmed heather, that Mr M. said were curlews. As they climbed higher and higher, the county of Northumberland spread out wider and wider around them, deep rounded valleys and straggles of tiny grey houses.

Mr M. said Hedgehope was the second highest mountain in Northumberland, and that the highest, over there, was Cheviot itself.

“Why didn’t we climb that?” asked Harry.

“No view from the top,” said Mr M. “Just a great flat-topped muddy old pudding.”

Hedgehope gave views all the way up. When they reached the cairn at the top, Mr M. pointed out Lindisfarne, lying like a crumpled lady’s handkerchief on the sea, and the Fames, and Penshaw monument in County Durham, and the mountains of the Lake District, a misty tinge far to the west.

“It’s like you can see the whole world,” said Harry.

“Oh, there are far better views from the top of Scafell. You can see the Isle of Man, and the Irish coast. And from Mont Blanc…”

“Have you climbed Mont Blanc?”

“Many years ago. As a young man. I’d like to do it again, before I’m too old. If this war doesn’t drag on forever….”

“I’d like to climb Mont Blanc. Is it very difficult? Cold? Does the snow on top lie all the year round?”

“You could manage it. If we got you in training for it.”

If we got you in training for it; that meant it might really happen, some day. The world seemed to open out at Harry’s feet. Not just the view from Hedgehope, but the view from every mountain in the world. Life seemed suddenly to go on forever and ever, and it was marvellous. Life with Mr M. suddenly joined up with life as it had been before the last bomb. The things in between; the burning bricks of home; Mam, Dad, Dulcie suddenly seemed incredibly
small.
Life would go on now; he knew it. As more than being hungry and soaking wet, as more than fighting angry farmers and the sea. Life relaxed, full of good things, as it used to be. When you could take it as it came…

Except that Mam and Dad and Dulcie wouldn’t be there to see it. They must be in some hole in the ground by now. If they’d found anything of them at all.