by Graeme K. Talboys
“Where the ell ave you bin? Dincher ear the lahd-speaker van?”
“Yes, Nan.”
“Yes, Nan, she says. And look at the state of yer. Ow the ell yer get covered in so much dirt rahnd ere beats me. You end up in the countryside an they’ll stick yer in a field and use yer as a bleedin scarecrow.”
The small face screwed up into a fierce I’m-not-going-to-cry scowl.
“And don’t start that. Come ere yer little tyke.” She hooked her hand under the child’s arm and they marched into the kitchen.
“Dunno know what she was playin at, bringin yer back ere. Keep Charlie safe, she says. Bleedin stupid place to bring yer for that. And then buggerin orf to Gawd knows where. What’s wrong wiv er uvver Nan, that’s wot I want ter know. Couldn’t she ave taken ther tyke?”
Charlie ignored Nan Gertie’s grumblings, as always. Besides, the fierce application of a wet facecloth required concentration on a different kind of scowl.
Upstairs, they packed Charlie’s meagre belongings. Mr Carberry from next door had brought a sack from the spice warehouse where he worked. It had been torn, so Gertie had cut it down and stitched the rough sisal fabric to make a sturdy bag. The hint of nutmeg reminded Charlie of Nan Gertie’s succulent rice puddings. It was a comforting smell – rich, dark, and clean.
“You urry up and get them marbles and uvver stuff aht o that box. I’ll be downstairs sortin aht yer samwiches.”
With a sigh, Charlie tipped everything out of the box onto the bed. The gas mask was thrown back in; the marbles were sorted with great care.
In the kitchen, Gertie wrapped some copies of Detective Weekly, a jotter, and a new pencil in an oilskin wallet and slipped it into the bottom of the sack. A smaller packet with sandwiches went in on top, followed by a tear.
“And yer can stop that, yer silly old cow,” she muttered.
“What did you say, Nan?”
Gertie turned with a sniff. “Never you mind what I said. Come ere.” She threaded a length of string through the lapel button-hole of Charlie’s hand-me-down gabardine and tied on a label.
Standing back, she surveyed the over-dressed child. “You’ll do. Now,” she added, pointing to the cupboard by the back door, “go put that note and them two tanners on the table in the front room. Them lodger girls’ll ave to ave pie an mash from Solly’s when they get in.”
Hopscotching ahead along the boot-worn pavement, Charlie was already back in that other world where Charlie alone lived, content and busy in pursuit of the criminal underworld. The gas mask box bumped up and down contra-rhythmically; the label fluttered.
Gertie watched the flimsy child swing on the lamp post and disappear round the corner. She wasn’t worried. Charlie would be peering in at the window of Golding’s, staring at the shelves of multi-coloured tins and boxes, and at the small counter where the sweets were laid out like the Crown Jewels.
“Come on, angel,” said Gertie as she steamed by the child. “Keep up.”
Charlie’s eyes lifted from dreamy contemplation of the creamy richness of chocolate and focussed sharply on an altogether different inner distance before being drawn out into the hard brickscape, suddenly alive to the miserable prospect of being sent away. “I don’t want to be an angel,” came the response.
Gertie didn’t hear. She strode along, fuelled by a cocktail of emotions held in the pressure cooker of her head; her muttering the quiet, constant clattering weight on the valve.
“It’s all the fault of that bleedin leaflet,” she said. “Preachin at people and confusin them. Sendin kids away. What sort of idea is that? How’s anyone goin to understand Charlie, put up with all those dreamy ways.”
She sighed. Her Jack had been like that. Quiet, content with simple comforts, fiercely protective of those he loved. “They played on that,” she went on. “Stole him away; makin im believe it was somethin worthwhile. Oh, what a waste that was.”
“‘People believe it’s better for families to stick together.’ I’d have bleedin said so. So then they go and say you can’t want yer kiddies to face the dangers of an air attack. Well, of course not. I remember them Zepp’lins. So why haven’t they bloody well done somethin to stop it happenin again?”
Phrases seethed in her head. Remove the children. Men and women will have to stand firm. Our defences are strong. “And then they go tellin us how difficult it is for the likes of us to understand what war might mean.” She hissed angrily through her teeth. “I bleedin well know what it means.”
The clatter and crunch of half-marching boots brought her up sharp. Out of the secondary school gates further up the road came a column of older boys on their way to the railway station. They were jaunty, smiling, cocky some of them. She shivered.
It was just like when the men began marching away twenty-five years before. She remembered that vividly. How they sang as they went with a swagger; how they eventually came limping back with the joy blasted out of them; some with a lot more missing as well; others, like her Jack, not coming back at all.
The playground was full; underlying order fraying into chaos. Those that had arrived early were already fretful and uncertain. Others still straggled in from the surrounding streets. Gertie ploughed sedately through the throng. She made straight for the Headmistress, Mrs Brett, who stood on the entrance steps – suitcase at her feet, whistle poised.
“Ah. Mrs Cornell, Is Char-”
“Charlie’s ere. With me.” She looked round. “Somewhere.” Unabashed, she continued, “Where they sendin em?”
“Pardon?”
“It says in that leaflet, dunnit. So I’ve got no idea where the child’s going and no more ave you. No one knows where they’re going.” Mrs Brett was disconcerted. She was barely coping as it was.
“They aven’t told yer, ave they,” continued Gertie. “It’s a disgrace. How do you know how they’ll be treated? How do we know they’ll come back. I can’t just up sticks and go. I’ve got work ere. It might not be much, but keeping a place clean for them as has to work through wot’s comin is no disgrace. And Charlie goes where I go.”
Before Mrs Brett could reply, Gertie had turned and gone. Charlie was with classmates, trying to pull up socks and tie the overcoat’s belt into a crime-busting knot.
Gertie hauled Charlie out of the playground, coat flapping, socks sinking into shoes and the hint of a tear of tiredness and confusion lurking in the corner of one eye. Away from curious stares, they stopped.
“Silly little bleeder,” said Gertie. She bent and pulled up the socks, turning them over neatly at the top; knotted the belt even though she was always on about using the buckle. There had been a tear to deal with, but by the time she had worked her way up, the clouds had passed and a hint of dreamy sunshine warmed Charlie’s features.
“Charlotte Jennifer Grace.” She was terrified of keeping her in harm’s way, more terrified of sending her away, but most terrified of each of them being alone and not knowing. “Ow do you bear the weight of all them names? Eh? Come ere.” She enveloped the child in a fierce hug.
“We’ll walk dahn the park and make a picnic of yer samwiches. And then… How about pie and mash for yer tea?”