War Orphans (7 page)

All around him was darkness and the strange sounds of night creatures. He sniffed again and barked at something he saw in the water. Whatever it was moved away at the sound of his bark.

Scared and tired he lay spent on the rock, unable to chew any more. He was just a puppy. He needed to sleep.

The rain had stopped and a rainbow arched from the green slopes of the Novers, a hilly expanse where sometimes ponies grazed, to the gasworks in Marksbury Road.

Joanna sat hugging her knees beside the Malago, the shallow stream that ran at the bottom of the expanse and disappeared into a culvert in St John's Lane.

Never had she felt so miserable. Paul tried to cheer her up but to no avail. Disappointed that he had failed to move her, Paul got to his feet. ‘I'm off with Lenny Scott to see if we can find any conkers. Want to come?'

She shook her head.

The reflection of the sky on the water made her think of heaven. Hopefully there was a special one for cats where there were no dogs and Lottie would be fed cream and kippers. She hadn't tasted cream herself for a very long time, though she had eaten the occasional kipper.

‘I've got a kipper for you,' Mrs Allen from next door had said to Joanna that morning as she'd wandered past. Joanna had declined, too upset to eat. Not only was her beloved Lottie no more but her stepmother had accused her of telling tales to ‘that toffee-nosed bitch from your school'.

Joanna had denied doing any such thing, but had earned a smack around the back of her head all the same.

The sudden splash of something entering the water caught her attention.

A rat? She knew there were plenty around here and even more over towards the gasworks.

She looked around in case Paul was still close by, but he was off to find conkers with Lenny Scott and the other boys. Even at this distance she could see that his hands were tucked his pockets, his elbows poking through the holes in his jumper.

Joanna considered herself as brave as a boy, but still wished he was here just in case it was a rat. She didn't like rats. She'd heard they would bite if cornered and attack anything small enough to eat. She hoped she wasn't small enough to eat.

There was no movement among the reeds in the water or in the grass growing thickly on the bank. The only thing that drew her attention was the pondweed streaming like green hair in the water's flow.

The weed had fanned out over something surrounding what seemed to be a small rock in the middle of the river. On second thoughts, she decided it wasn't a rock because it fluttered slightly, as if a piece of cloth had been caught there.

Curious, she got to her feet, stepped closer to the bank and narrowed her eyes.

Whatever the lump, rock or mound of cloth was, it seemed half in and half out of what she now guessed to be a sack. The object – whatever it was – anchoring it to a stone.

The local kids had placed a series of flat stones at frequent intervals so they could more easily cross from one side of the stream to the other. Whatever this was had landed on one of those rocks. To Joanna's eyes looked like a brown blob, shapeless, slick and still.

Intrigued she sat down on a dry mound of reed and took off her shoes and socks.

The stones were wet and moss covered, but she dug her toes into the wet slushy surface and made her way from one stone to the next.

All around her was movement. The water formed chortling eddies and a small fish darted out from beneath the third stone. That was where she stopped. The first thought to cross her mind
was that the brown blob she had seen was a dead rat. If so she would turn back immediately.

But you don't know for sure.

Bracing both hands on her knees, she peered more closely. It was not a rat. The colour of the fur was too rich, not the dull brown of a river rat but copper-coloured, brown but tinged with a touch of dark red.

The wet moss was cold beneath her feet and the next stone wobbled. Flinging her arms wide, she held her balance, her toes dug in to stop herself from slipping.

The fourth and fifth stone were solid beneath her feet and gave her chance to see more clearly whatever it was on the sixth stone.

Joanna gasped. All the pity she might have felt for herself evaporated at the sight that greeted her.

The little lump was soft and soaking wet. There was a shiny black nose and one paw was crossed over the other.

‘A puppy!'

The exclamation came out in a soft squeal. The puppy dog's eyes were closed. The possibility that he might be dead frightened her.

She stooped down on the stone she was standing on, her elbows resting against her knees. Should she touch him? She was almost afraid to do so. And what was he doing here? How come he was lying on a stepping stone in the middle of a stream?

When she saw the sack again, she remembered what Paul had told her. Pets were not just being put to sleep, they were also being abandoned. People were being panicked into destroying those things they had once loved.

Kneeling down in the wet moss, she stretched out her hand to touch the damp fur.

‘Poor thing,' she whispered. ‘If only Paul were still here. We could sing a hymn for you.' It didn't seem right for just one person to sing a hymn.

She didn't doubt that the poor creature was dead, drowned in a stream where children played.

‘But at least I can give you a proper burial,' she added softly. ‘Jesus will take care of you.'

Joanna's gaze wandered warily to the rest of the sack submerged in the water. Instinctively she knew there were more dead puppies in the sack. They too deserved a decent burial. Perhaps it might be best if she did run after Paul and get him to help. She couldn't bear the job of burying them all by herself.

Hot tears pricked at her eyes and she hardly noticed how hard she was biting her bottom lip as she ran her hand over the waterlogged coat of the puppy.

How could people be so cruel? This horrible war was making people do horrible things that they wouldn't contemplate doing in peacetime.

Her tears grew more copious, running down her face and dripping off her jaw. Some of them landed on the tiny pink tongue protruding from beneath velvet soft flews.

She was about to close her eyes and recite the Lord's Prayer when she noticed something extraordinary. The tongue flicked. Another tear landed on his nose. The puppy sneezed.

Joanna's jaw dropped and she could barely breathe. Was it too much to hope that he might be alive?

Taking a deep breath, she felt where she thought his heart must be. To her amazement something pulsed like the ticking of a clock beneath her fingers.

He was alive! She could hardly believe it. He was actually alive!

She looked around her. There was nobody about who might lay claim to him. Nobody to see her rescuing him from what would have been a watery grave.

Sliding one hand beneath his head, the other beneath his rump, she picked him up, holding him close to her chest.

The puppy whimpered as she tucked him beneath her coat. His eyes remained closed.

Should she take him home? No. Elspeth would curl her lips, clout her around the head and throw him out into the street – or
worse! Either that or the poor mite would go the same way as Lottie, her beloved cat.

But what should she do with him?

Joanna cast her gaze around her, seeking somewhere suitable to hide him.

Away from here, she decided, tucking him further beneath her coat. Fear of losing what she had found made her secretive. She didn't want anyone to know about him. Ears could be boxed and secrets shared betrayed.
Even Paul
, she thought to herself,
I can't even tell Paul. Nobody will know.

Before she got too far away she took one last look at the sack left in the stream and shuddered. She would tell Paul about the sack and ask him to bury it. However, she had made her mind up to keep secret the fact that one puppy had survived. Nobody would know. Only her.

She reached the rows of allotments adjoining the railway line at the bottom of the park. All manner of vegetables were presently growing, green shoots piercing the dark rich earth. It seemed deserted, most of the allotment owners were at work, and the few that were on the allotments were too intent on what they were doing to notice a small girl.

The allotment owners came down frequently to tend their plants, taking their tools from out of their sheds to dig and weed and plant vegetables, all following the government's entreaties to dig for victory. At the end of each allotment was a shed used by the gardeners to store their tools. All of them were well looked after, except one. It was ramshackle and neglected, and its scruffy windows looked out over a patch of tangled dead plants, thistles, nettles and elder saplings. It was made of wood, had dirty windows and a rusted corrugated iron roof. The door was lopsided and held closed by a rusty hook. She prayed it wasn't locked.

She'd never seen anyone there so it stood to reason that it was as abandoned as the piece of overgrown land. She made up her mind. If nobody else made use of it then she would.

Gritting her teeth, she hugged the puppy closer, pushing the thought away that no matter what she did, the puppy still might die. First she had to warm him up and then she would gather all the things he needed – something snug to sleep in, bowls for food and water, a blanket to wrap over him . . .

Although she had no idea how to get those things – or whether she could get them – she would do her best to save the little chap even if she had to give it all her bread and dripping!

She looked down inside her coat, glad to see the puppy nestled against her chest. Its eyes were still closed. Fearing he might have died on the short journey from the stream to the shed, she put her finger up to his noise. To her great delight she could feel him breathing, his little heart beating time against her chest. His body felt warm now, not icy as it had been. She smiled, thrilled to see him sleeping so contentedly.

She was loath to disturb the sleeping bundle, but disturb she must. The hook holding the door closed was very rusty and she would need both hands to open it.

Carefully, she took off her coat then her cardigan, first one arm then the other, and wrapped it around the sleeping puppy. Once that was done and the puppy still did not wake up, she placed him in a patch of long grass growing between the shed and the flowers and put her coat back on.

Just as she'd guessed, the rusty hook was difficult to budge. Again and again she tugged it, doing her utmost to push it up from the metal eye it slotted into.

Tears of frustration sprang to her eyes and she muttered bad words under her breath, words her stepmother sometimes used when she was angry after coming home late, calling somebody a bloody sod, a bastard only out for what he could get – whatever that meant.

The sudden sound of the puppy whimpering drew her attention. She fell down beside him, stroking his silky little head just as she used to stroke Lottie's.

‘Please don't die,' she whispered to him, her heart breaking at the prospect that he might. ‘Don't die. Don't die!'

A few spots of rain began to fall. Joanna sprang to her feet. The puppy needed a safe hiding place and she was going to give it to him. Taking a deep breath, she used both hands to tug at the hook, shaking the door, kicking it then tugging again, trying to shift it upwards and out of the eye.

Her hands were too soft and she was too weak. She realised she needed something hard to hit it out of the clasp.

A quick look around and she saw a trowel with a wooden handle and a metal blade. She picked it up and with the back of the metal blade gave the hook an upward blow. It sounded so loud she looked around, fearing somebody might have heard.

There was nobody there, just rows of cabbages, leeks, beans and other vegetables dripping raindrops onto the ground. Despite their bedraggled wetness, they had a friendly look, hiding her as they were from the surrounding world of red-brick houses and privet hedges. Their rustling in the breeze seemed to be cheering her on to do her very best:
Give the hook a really good bash!

This time the hook moved upwards, not by much, but enough to encourage her to hit it again.

Screwing up her face, gritting her teeth and using every ounce of strength she possessed, she bashed it again. This time, to her great delight, it sprang upwards. The door budged enough for her to slide her fingers through and pull it. Bending down, she picked up the puppy snuggled in her old cardigan and slipped into the gap.

Inside the shed was quite dark, light trying its best to break through the curtain of cobwebs covering the cracked windowpanes.

Joanna didn't like spiders at the best of times. There were some in the coalhouse and her stepmother took great glee in reminding her of the fact each time she threw her in there.

‘Big and black with long hairy legs,' she would cackle, like a witch.

Joanna's eyes opened wide. The spiders were mostly confined to the window. Small round shapes and bigger ones with long thin legs hung in the webs, along with flies and other insects all forming the spiders' larders.

Joanna shivered. Only the fact that the puppy needed somewhere safe to stay persuaded her to be brave. He mattered far more than anything.

‘They won't hurt you,' she said to herself over and over again, in an effort to make herself believe it was true. Of course it was true, but that didn't make seeing them there easier to bear.

Dragging her eyes away from the spiders, she took stock of the rest of the interior. A rough table stood against the wall underneath a window piled with old seed trays and plant pots. Shelves lined the opposite wall, and beneath them garden hoes, spades and forks hung from hooks.

There were a few galvanised-steel buckets plus an old deckchair and wooden seed boxes, some of them quite large and looking as though they might once have been part of a chest of drawers. There were also old sacks that might once have contained daffodil and tulip bulbs. These were folded neatly and placed on top of the table in front of the window.