he got to the shop, Harry could see the bald head peering and bobbing maliciously above the heads of the customers. He had spent half of the day manufacturing lies for the chip-shop man. He tied up Don properly by his leash to the lamp-post, and pushed boldly into the shop.
“Ha,” said the man nastily. “Here’s our little war hero, back for his nightly share of our fish and chips. I see you’ve managed to wash your face for once.”
Harry joined the queue quietly, saying nothing. All the people in the shop were total strangers, so he knew he couldn’t look for any help there.
“’E’s bombed out, you know,” said the man nastily. “Where you billeted then?”
Harry was ready. “Priory Road.” It was the longest road in Tynemouth, and not very posh.
“What number?” asked the man. Harry was ready for that, too.
“Dunno,” he said, “but it’s about half-way down, on the right-hand side. Gotta green door and big white sea shells in the garden.” Half the houses in Priory Road had big white sea shells in the garden.
“What’s the lady’s name – that you’re billeted on?”
“It’s a funny long name – we just have to call her Auntie.”
There was a titter in the queue. Harry felt they were turning on to his side. The woman at the front of the queue said sharply, “C’mon, Jim. I haven’t got all night to stand here, you know. Our Ted’s got to go back from leave.”
The man gave Harry another nasty glare, but started shovelling chips again. Meanwhile, the other women in the queue began discussing which woman with a funny long name had a house in Priory Road, with a green door and sea shells in the front garden.
“It’s not Peggy Molyneaux, is it? I hadn’t heard she had anybody billeted on her …”
Harry was glad he’d picked the longest road in Tynemouth. But he knew with dreadful certainty that this was the last time he could use the chip shop. The gossip would be all over the village by tomorrow night. And what would he and Don do for food then? The woman asked him more questions about his landlady, and he almost ran out of answers, and sweated.
But at last it was his turn.
“Six sausage an’ chips, please.” He might as well grab what food he could.
“Six?” yelled the man. “Are ye feeding a bloody regiment or something?”
“The landlady wants some an’ all. An’ for her husband.” Harry’s lips quivered. He felt a traitorous tear gathering in his eye, and simply let himself cry. It had worked last night …
“Leave the poor bairn alone, for God’s sake,” said a woman. “What’s he ever done to you, Jim?” And there was a murmur from the queue. Harry didn’t think anybody liked the man, really.
But it was a marvellous relief to get out into the cool air of Front Street, with the packet burning against his chest. His tears dried up instantly, and he untied Don and walked down to the sea amazed at himself. His dad had always taught him never to lie, and that only babies cried. But tears and lies seemed to be all that worked now.
In the night, the dog stirred against his side. Stirred and growled deep in its throat. Harry was awake in a flash. Was there someone prowling the dark beach? Somebody after Mam’s precious attaché case? He listened hard, and heard nothing. Then the dog growled again.
And Harry heard.
Vroomah, vroomah, vroomah. Out over the sea. The Jerry bombers were back. And there seemed to be a lot of them.
Then, on the Castle cliffs overhead, the siren went.
The dog whimpered, once, and then went mad, trying to scrabble its way out from under the boat, casting huge sheets of sand over the blankets, and into Harry’s eyes in the dark. His eyes were agony.
But he knew he must stop the dog. Dogs went crazy in air raids. Ran about the streets howling, upsetting people. Ran blind, ran anywhere. Don could run off and get lost forever.
He grabbed for Don’s collar, and felt around desperately for the leash, and got it on him, just as the dog wriggled out from under the boat. Harry let himself be dragged after him, bumping his head so he saw stars. There was nothing else he could do.
Outside, it was as light as day. Three searchlights, three great bars of blue light reached outwards from the Castle into the sky above the sea, slowly waving and feeling like fingers for the approaching Jerries. More searchlights waved around from South Shields across the river. Little bits of mist or cloud drifted through the beams, like cigarette smoke. By their light, Harry could see every detail of the beach. And be seen. There’d be a warden round in a minute, yelling at him to get under cover. And the bombers were closer, and the guns would be opening fire overhead. Where to run to?
But the dog just ran, and Harry had to run with him, tripping over bits of wood half-buried in the sand and once falling flat and being dragged along. He hadn’t a clue where he was going. But Don had. Suddenly they were up against the beginning of the pier, the massive granite pier. And set into the pier, huge arches. And inside the arches, massive granite blocks were stored, for repairing the pier when the waves broke it. Don went straight into a dark gap between the blocks, and dragged Harry after him. And then Don stopped, and Harry realised he was in the best air-raid shelter in Tynemouth. Six feet of granite over his head, and solid granite on three sides, and on the fourth a parapet of huge blocks, just low enough to peer over.
“Good dog,” he whispered. “Good dog,” and fondled the dog’s ears. Don was shaking so hard he made Harry shake in sympathy. Harry remembered something his dad had said about dogs in air raids. They suffered terribly with their ears, because they could hear ten times better than people. The sounds were ten times as loud to them. He pulled off one of his jumpers, folded down the dog’s ears, and wrapped the jumper round them hard. The dog seemed to like it; it snuggled in.
And then the Castle guns fired, and it was like the end of the world. The world cracked apart four times; Harry’s head seemed to crack apart four times. His ears hurt, physically hurt. Like earache.
He remembered the government issuing ear-plugs. Everyone had laughed at the idea of the little rubber earplugs, on their bit of string, that you carried in your gas-mask case, if you still carried your gas-mask case, which hardly anyone ever did these days, only kids with soppy mams.
He wished he had them now. But … something … hold the dog with one hand, scrabble in his pockets with the other. Bit of paper; bus ticket. He shoved it into his mouth and chewed it frantically. When it was soggy enough, he worked it into two lumps, and pushed one piece into each of his ears.
The Castle guns fired again. But it was much better now; only half as bad. Didn’t hurt. He shoved the bits of bus ticket even further in. Then peered with interest over his high bulwark. He’d never been out in an air raid before; he’d always been cowering down in the shelter, like a rat in a hole. Mam hadn’t even let him look out of the shelter door, unless it had been quiet for ages.
He thought it was the grandest firework display he’d ever seen. High above, great chains of blue lights hung, lighting the whole sky. They swung; they drifted across each other like swathes of stars. These must be the “chandeliers” Dad had talked about; dropped by the bombers to light their
