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 attaché 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
