The Kingdom by the Sea (2 page)

He felt… he felt like a bird flying very high, far from the world and getting further away all the time. Like those gulls who soar on summer thermals and then find they cannot get down to earth again, but must wait till the sun sets, and the land cools, and the terrible strength of the upward thermal releases them to land exhausted. Only he could not imagine
ever
coming to earth again, ever. Back to where everything was just as it always had been, and you did things without thinking about them.

He supposed he would just walk till he died. It seemed the most sensible thing to do.

He must have wandered round the town all day, in circles. Every so often, he would come to himself, and realise he was in Rudyerd Street, or Nile Street.

But what did Rudyerd Street
mean?
What did Nile Street
mean?
Sometimes he thought he would go home, and Dulcie would be swinging on the front gate, shouting rude things at the big boys as they passed, but running to the safety of Mam’s kitchen if they made a move to attack her. And Mam would be doing the ironing, or putting the stew in the oven.

But the moment he turned his steps towards home, the truth came back to him; the burning pile of bricks. And he would turn his steps away again.

The last time he came to himself, he was somewhere quite different.

On the beach. The little beach inside the harbour mouth, that didn’t have to be fenced off with barbed wire because it was under the direct protection of the Castle guns.

He suddenly felt very tired and sat down with a thump on the sand, with his back against a black tarry boat. He closed his eyes and laid back his head; the warmth of the sun smoothed out his face, like Mam had often done with her hands. He smelt the tar of the boat and it was a nice smell; it was the first thing he’d smelt since the burning gas, and it was a comforting smell. The sun warmed his hands as they lay on the sand, and his knees under his trousers, and in a very tiny world, it was nice, nice, nice. It felt as if somebody
cared
about him, and was looking after him.

On the edge of sleep, he said, “Mam?” questioningly. And then he was asleep.

He dreamed it was just a usual day at home, with Dulcie nagging on, and Mam baking, and Dad coming in from work and taking his boots off with a satisfied sigh. He dreamed he shouted at them,”
There
you all are! Where have you
been?”

And they all laughed at him, and said, “Hiding, silly!” And it was all right.

The all-rightness stayed with him when he woke; a
feeling they were not far away. He lay relaxed; as he remembered lying relaxed in his pram when he was little and watching the leaves of trees blowing, whispering and sunlit overhead. As long as he didn’t move he knew the bubble of happiness would not break. But if he moved, he knew they would go away and leave him again.

So he lay on, dreamily. The sun still shone, though it was setting, and the shadows of the cliff were creeping out towards him. And that he knew was bad. When the shadow reached him the sun would be gone, the world would turn grey, a cold breeze would blow.

And it would be time to go home. Like the three girl bathers who were walking up the beach towards him, chattering and laughing and feebly hitting each other with wet towels. They had a home; he had no home. There was a sort of glass wall between people who had a home and people who hadn’t.

He watched them pass and get into a little black car that was waiting to pick them up. He thought, with a twinge of resentment, that
some
people could still get petrol for cars even in wartime. Black market. It would serve them right if the police caught them.

Then the car moved off with a puff of blue smoke, and he felt even more lonely. The shadow of the cliff grew nearer. And nearer.

“Please help,” he said to the soft warm air, and the dimming blue sky. “Don’t leave me.” He felt the approach of another night alone as if it was a monster.

The shadow of the cliff was only a yard away now. He reached out his arm and put his hand into it; it felt cold, like putting your hand in water, icy water.

And yet still he hoped, as the shadow crept up his arm.

He closed his eyes and felt the shadow creeping, like the liquid in a thermometer. Only it wasn’t recording heat, it was recording cold.

And then he heard an explosive snort, just in front of him. Sat upright, startled, and opened his eyes.

It was a dog. A dog sitting watching him. A dog who had been in the sea, because its black fur was all spikes. A dog who had been rolling in the sand, because the spikes were all sandy. The dog watched him with what seemed to be very kind eyes. But then most dogs had kind eyes.

The dog held its paw up to him, and hesitantly he took it. The dog woofed twice, softly, approvingly, then took its paw back.

Was this his miracle? He looked round swiftly, for an owner, before he let himself hope.

There was no one else on the beach, just him and the dog.

But lots of dogs came down to the beach on their own
and made friends with anybody, for an afternoon. And there was a medal on the dog’s collar.

Not breathing, not daring to hope, he pulled the dog to him by the collar, and read the medal.

The dog was called Don, and lived at 12 Aldergrove Terrace.

Harry shut his eyes, and he couldn’t even have told himself whether he closed them in gladness or horror.

Aldergrove Terrace had been a very posh and very short terrace. Three weeks ago, Aldergrove Terrace had been hit by a full stick of German bombs. Anybody in Aldergrove who was still alive was in hospital… permanently.

He opened his eyes, and looked at his fellow survivor. The dog was a sort of small, short-legged Alsatian. It looked quite fit, but rather thin and uncared-for. It certainly hadn’t been combed in a long time, and people had combed their dogs in Aldergrove every day. It had been that sort of place.

He pulled the dog towards him again, almost roughly. It willingly collapsed against his leg and lay staring out to sea, its mouth open and its tongue gently out. He stroked it. The sandy fur was nearly dry, and he could feel the warmth of its body seeping out damply against his leg.

They stayed that way a long time, a long contented time, just being together. Long ago, they’d had a dog at number nine, but it had got old and died. It was good to have a dog
again, and the way the dog delighted in his hand, he knew it was glad to have found somebody as well. He dreamily watched the little waves breaking on the sand; glad he wasn’t alone any more.

And then the dog stood up, and shook itself, and whined, watching him with those warm eyes. It wanted something from him.

“What is it, boy?” The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t spoken to anybody since he ran away from the wardens. “What do you want, boy?”

The dog whined again, and then nudged with its long nose at the bundle of blankets, sniffing. Then it turned, and nosed at the attachè case, pushing it through the sand.

The dog was hungry. And he had nothing to give it, nothing in the world. And suddenly he felt terribly hungry himself.

It threw him into a panic of helplessness. It was getting dark as well, and he had nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. He put his face in his hands, and rocked with misery. And then he remembered his father’s voice saying, angrily, “Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think, son,
think
.”

It was the boat he noticed first; the boat he had been leaning against. The owner had turned it upside-down, to stop the rain getting in, like they always did. But that had been a long time ago. This boat hadn’t been used for years;
the black, tarry paint was splitting, peeling, blistering. There was a half-inch crack, where the stern met the side. That meant…

Safety. A hiding place. A roof for the night, if it started to rain. There was a gap on this side, between the boat and the sand. Only six inches, but he could make it bigger. He began to scrabble at the sand with his hands. The sand came easily; it was soft and dry. Soon he managed to wriggle through the hole he had made. Inside, it was dark, apart from the cracks in the stern, where some light came in. But it smelt sweetly of the sea and old tar, and dry wood. The dog wriggled through to join him, licking his face, sure it was a game. He pushed it away and reached out and dragged in the bundle of blankets and the attachè case. There was plenty of room; it was a big boat, a fishing boat. He squatted by the entrance, like an Indian in his wigwam. He’d solved one problem, and it gave him strength.

Now, food. He racked his brains. Then remembered there had always been a big fish and chip shop in Front Street. It wouldn’t sell much fish now, because the trawlers were away on convoy-escort. But it still sold chips and sausages cooked in batter. All the fish and chip shops did.

But… money.

He searched desperately through his pockets for odd pennies and ha’pennies.

And his fingers closed on the milled edge of a big fat two-shilling piece. Yesterday had been Thursday, and Dad had given him his week’s pocket-money as usual. It all seemed so very far away, but there was the big fat florin in his hand. He rubbed the edge in the dim light, to make sure it was real, not just a penny.

He took a deep breath, and wormed out through the hole again, followed by the dog. He was in a hurry now; his stomach was sort of dissolving into juice at the thought of the battered sausages. He didn’t like the idea of leaving his blankets and the precious attachè case behind, but he couldn’t carry them and the chips as well. Besides, they would make him look conspicuous. They would have to take their chance, as Dad always said, when he and Harry planted out tiny seedlings, watered them, and left them for the night. Harry shook his head savagely, to shake away the memory, and the sting of hot tears that pricked at his eyes suddenly. He smoothed back the sand to conceal the hole he had dug, and set off for Front Street, the dog running ahead and marking the lamp-posts as if this was an ordinary evening stroll along the sea front.

Even a hundred yards away, the breeze carried the appetising smell to his nostrils. The shop wasn’t shut then; he felt full of triumph. There was a crowd of people in the shop and they hadn’t drawn the blackout curtains yet.

He pushed open the door, and the dog nosed past him eagerly, nostrils working. The owner of the shop, a tall bald man in a long greasy white apron, looked over the heads of his customers and saw them, and Harry instantly knew he was a very nasty man indeed, even before he opened his mouth.

“Get that dirty great animal out of here! This is a clean shop, a food shop!”

Covered with confusion, blushing furiously, Harry grabbed the dog’s collar, and dragged him out. He pushed the dog’s bottom to the pavement, and shouted, “Sit! Sit!” The dog looked at him trustingly, wagging his tail, and Harry dived back into the shop again, before the dog changed his mind. He joined the back of the queue which was about six people long.

“Filthy great beast,” said the man, to no one in particular. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.” He shovelled great mounds of golden chips into newspaper and said to the woman helping him, “More batter, Ada,” equally nastily.

Harry heard the shop door open again, and the next second, Don was beside him, leaping up at the glass counter with eager paws, and leaving dirty scratchmarks on the glass.

“I told you, get that bloody animal out of here! I won’t tell you again!”

Harry grabbed Don a second time. He could feel tears starting to gather in his eyes. He hauled him out, as two more people passed him to join the queue inside. He had lost his place in the queue. And every time somebody else came, Don would come in with them, and he’d always lose his place in the queue, and
never
get served.

He looked round desperately. There was a lamp-post, with two sandbags attached, for use against incendiary bombs. They were tied to the lamp-post with thick string… Harry hauled Don over, undid the string, and slipped it through Don’s collar, tied a knot, and fled back into the shop.

“Messing with our sandbags now?” said the man savagely. He seemed to have eyes everywhere but on his own business. “Don’t live round here, do you?”

Harry’s heart sank. Not living round here was important; he mightn’t get served at all now. Shopkeepers looked after their own, these days of rationing.

“And it’s a while since your face saw soap an’ water. Or yer hair a comb. Where yer from? The Ridges?”

The Ridges was the slummiest council estate in the whole town; it was a downright insult, to anyone who came from the Balkwell.

“No. From the Balkwell,” he said stoutly.

“Well, you get back to the Balkwell chip shop, sonny
Jim. We’ve only enough chips for Tynemouth people in this shop. An’ take that damned dog with you. Stolen him, have you? He looks a bit too grand for the likes of you. I’ve a mind to phone for the poliss.”

The tears were streaming down Harry’s face by that time. One of the women in the queue said, “Steady on, Jim. The bairn’s upset. What’s the matter, son?”

Something gave way inside Harry. It was all too much. He said, “I’ve been bombed out.”

He heard a murmur of sympathy from the assembled customers, so he added, “Me dad was killed.” He said it like he was hitting the man with a big hammer.

There was a terrible hush in the shop. Everyone was looking at him, pale and open-mouthed. Then the woman said, “Serve him first, Jim. He can have my turn. What do you want, son?”

Harry had only meant to have one portion, to share with the dog. But the wild triumph was too sweet. The dog would have his own; and they’d have one each for breakfast in the morning, too. And he was thirsty.

“Four sausage and chips. And a bottle of Tizer.”

Viciously, the man scooped up the portions. Harry thought he tried to make them mingy portions, but all the customers were watching him. So he suddenly doubled-up the number of chips, far more than he should have given.
Then he banged the big newspaper parcel on the counter, and the bottle of Tizer with it.