Harry hardly saw his mother. It was Aunty Ivy who built sandcastles with him now and pushed him on the swing in the front garden. ‘If I’d had a little boy I’d have wanted him to be just like you, pet,’ she told him, ‘but Mr Coleman and me, we weren’t blessed.’ Harry wasn’t sure what she meant by that. It was Aunty Ivy and not his mother who read bedtime stories to him, kissed him goodnight and tucked him up leaving the door open for the light. He heard her tell his mother one morning out in the passage, ‘I’ll look after the boy for you, it’ll be a treat for me. I’ve always wanted one of my own, you know. You go and enjoy yourself with your young man. You’re only young once.’ And so every morning after breakfast Bill Wesley would come, and his mother would say to Harry, ‘You don’t mind, do you, dear? Aunty Ivy will look after you. I’ll be back before bedtime.’ But she never was.
On the last day at breakfast his mother said that Billy – she called him ‘Billy’ now – wanted to take them both on a boat trip. ‘He wants to get to know you a bit,’ she said. Harry told her he wasn’t feeling very well – he was sure she wouldn’t go if he wasn’t well. But his ruse backfired on him. Aunty Ivy put her warm hand on his forehead and said she thought he might well have a fever coming on and that perhaps he ought not to go out, that she would be quite happy to look after him. So his mother went out with Bill Wesley on the boat without him.
Harry watched them from his bed through Aunty Ivy’s binoculars. He watched them out in their bobbing boat until his anger made him cry. Aunty Ivy said she understood.
She cuddled him close and kissed him. ‘It’ll be all right, pet. I’ll take care of you. If you ever need a friend your Aunty Ivy will always be here. Come on, cheer up. She’s a pretty woman, your mother. Only natural she’d take up with someone one day. Nice young man he is too – works in a bank, he tells me. A woman doesn’t want to stay a widow all her life – believe me, pet. She should get married again. Only natural.’
And that’s just what happened only a few months later in St Cuthbert’s. They had the reception in the church hall afterwards. Harry was there, lost in the legs of the wedding guests. ‘Are you happy for me, Harry?’ his mother asked him. She was wearing the brown suit, but the winged brooch wasn’t there any more. Harry nodded.
‘Doesn’t look very happy to me,’ said Bill, bending down and ruffling his hair. ‘I’ll be looking after you both now, Harry.’
‘Give us a smile, Harry dear,’ his mother said through her tears. Harry smiled, but just to please her. She kissed him and whispered, ‘It’ll be all right, you’ll see.’
But it was not all right. Nothing was ever to be all right after that.
*
‘Harryyyy!’ Harry started out of his dream too late and the ball rolled past his outstretched foot and through a hole in the fence behind him. They were all shouting at him, Peter Barker amongst them. ‘What’s the matter with you, Harry?’ he said, rushing up to him. ‘You didn’t even try. We just lost and it’s all because of you. You’d better fetch the ball, and quick. The bell’s going any second.’
There was a system for getting the ball back if it went through or over the fence into the bomb site. Everyone knew it was absolutely forbidden to go in there. Mr Quigley, the headmaster, had told them often enough – the walls were dangerous and there could even be unexploded bombs. Of course no one really believed that. A dozen or more children gathered around the hole in the fence to form a protective screen so that no one could see what was happening from the school windows. ‘But why me?’ asked Harry.
‘You let the goal in, didn’t you?’ said Peter Barker. There was no answer to that.
‘Anyone about?’ Harry asked, looking for any lurking teachers on playground duty.
‘All clear,’ said Peter, turning Harry towards the hole and pushing him downwards.
Harry scrambled through and had just grabbed the ball when he heard the bell. He turned quickly and was crawling back when he felt his jumper catch on the fence. He looked up and called for someone to help free him. They had all gone, every last one of them, and Miss Hardcastle was striding across the playground towards him, the bell in her hand. Harry felt his jersey tear, and then his trousers, as Miss Hardcastle took him by the shoulder and dragged him back through the hole.
Miss Hardcastle was known to everyone as The Dragon, and with good reason. To get caught by any teacher in the bombsite was bad enough. It usually meant a dressing-down in Mr Quigley’s study as well as several hundred lines and a letter to take home; but to get caught by The Dragon was always a deal more painful. She dealt with things herself and in her own special way. When The Dragon hit you she meant to hurt you. Harry knew that only too well as he was marched along the corridor and into the classroom.
They were all sitting there in awed silence, guilty witnesses of what was about to happen. Not one of them dared to look him in the face except Peter, who shrugged his shoulders and apologised with his eyes. Harry dreaded the ritual but he was determined not to show it. He held out his hand, praying fervently it would be the flat of the ruler across the open hand this time.
‘How many times have you been told, Harry Hawkins, that the bombsite is out of bounds?’ Harry said nothing. It was better that way, over with quicker. You didn’t argue with The Dragon, not if you knew what was good for you. ‘You do know the bombsite is out of bounds, I suppose?’
‘Yes, Miss.’
‘Then why did you go in there?’
‘To fetch the ball, Miss.’
‘So you quite deliberately broke a school rule, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Miss.’ The worst bit was the waiting. Harry’s mouth was dry with fear and the backs of his legs were sweating.
‘Deliberate defiant disobedience.’ The Dragon was working herself into a temper with every word. She grabbed his fingers and turned his hand over, knuckles uppermost. He knew now he had to expect the worst. ‘Perhaps this will persuade you to do as you’re told in the future.’ And she reached for the long ruler from the top of her desk. ‘And there’ll be a letter to take back to your father.’
‘He’s not my father,’ Harry said quietly.
‘What did you say?’
‘He’s not my father. My father’s dead.’
‘Oh yes, of course, I forgot,’ and her lips curled with acid sarcasm. ‘We all know Harry Hawkins’ father, don’t we, the great war hero, the great fighter pilot. You’ve told us often enough, haven’t you?’
‘He wasn’t fighter pilot, Miss. He was a navigator in a bomber and . . .’
‘Are you arguing with me?’ Her lips were tight with fury. ‘Are you?’
‘No, Miss.’ Harry knew he was stupid to have started it, but he would not let anyone call Bill his father, not even The Dragon. He winced in spite of himself as she tightened her hold on his wrist and pulled his hand out. He saw her tongue gripped between her teeth and watched the ruler swinging upwards. He did not try to pull away. He’d done that before. She just added another stroke every time he’d tried. His fingers curled involuntarily as the ruler came down, sharp edge first. With the hollow crack came the pain shooting all through him. ‘Maybe this!’ Again the ruler came down, again and then again. ‘Maybe this will teach you. And this! And this!’ Harry looked
