place in the queue. And every time somebody else came, Don would come in with them, and he’d always lose his place in the queue, and never get served.
He looked round desperately. There was a lamp-post, with two sandbags attached, for use against incendiary bombs. They were tied to the lamp-post with thick string … Harry hauled Don over, undid the string, and slipped it through Don’s collar, tied a knot, and fled back into the shop.
“Messing with our sandbags now?” said the man savagely. He seemed to have eyes everywhere but on his own business. “Don’t live round here, do you?”
Harry’s heart sank. Not living round here was important; he mightn’t get served at all now. Shopkeepers looked after their own, these days of rationing.
“And it’s a while since your face saw soap an’ water. Or yer hair a comb. Where yer from? The Ridges?”
The Ridges was the slummiest council estate in the whole town; it was a downright insult, to anyone who came from the Balkwell.
“No. From the Balkwell,” he said stoutly.
“Well, you get back to the Balkwell chip shop, sonny Jim. We’ve only enough chips for Tynemouth people in this shop. An’ take that damned dog with you. Stolen him, have you? He looks a bit too grand for the likes of you. I’ve a mind to phone for the poliss.”
The tears were streaming down Harry’s face by that time. One of the women in the queue said, “Steady on, Jim. The bairn’s upset. What’s the matter, son?”
Something gave way inside Harry. It was all too much. He said, “I’ve been bombed out.”
He heard a murmur of sympathy from the assembled customers, so he added, “Me dad was killed.” He said it like he was hitting the man with a big hammer.
There was a terrible hush in the shop. Everyone was looking at him, pale and open-mouthed. Then the woman said, “Serve him first, Jim. He can have my turn. What do you want, son?”
Harry had only meant to have one portion, to share with the dog. But the wild triumph was too sweet. The dog would have his own; and they’d have one each for breakfast in the morning, too. And he was thirsty.
“Four sausage and chips. And a bottle of Tizer.”
Viciously, the man scooped up the portions. Harry thought he tried to make them mingy portions, but all the customers were watching him. So he suddenly doubled-up the number of chips, far more than he should have given. Then he banged the big newspaper parcel on the counter, and the bottle of Tizer with it.
“Two shillings and fourpence!”
Harry gazed in horror at the two-shilling piece in his hand.
He’d over-reached himself with a vengeance, and he hadn’t another penny on him. He stared around panic-stricken at the staring faces.
Then the woman took his two shillings off him, added fourpence of her own, and gave it to the man, saying, “Run along, son. Yer mam could do with those chips while they’re hot.”
“Ta,” he said, staring at her plump kindly face in wonder. Then he was out of the shop, with the burning packet of chips against his chest and the Tizer bottle on the pavement as he untied Don.
He walked back to the boat in a whirl. So much had happened so quickly. But he’d gone to get chips, and he’d done it. Made a terrible mess of mistakes, but he’d done it.
He spread the dog’s share on the sand, on its newspaper, so the dog wouldn’t eat any sand by mistake. The dog wolfed the sausage first, then all the chips, and nosed the folds of paper for every last crumb of batter. Then came to scrounge off Harry. It must have been really starving. Well, now it was full, and he himself had seen to that. He felt obscurely proud. The dog was his, and he’d fed it. And found it a place to sleep.
He stretched his legs out and lay against the boat, relaxed, and swigged Tizer. He couldn’t give the dog any Tizer. He hadn’t a bowl. But the dog loped off to where a little freshwater stream trickled down the sand from the Castle cliff and lapped noisily. Another problem solved.
He watched the little waves coming into the beach from the darkening river. Little lines of whiteness coming out of the dark. This time last night they’d all been sitting down to supper, Mam, Dad, Dulcie …
He let himself cry then. Somehow he could afford to, with his belly full, and his new home against his back, and his new friend the dog snuffling at his raincoat, still looking for crumbs of batter. He cried quite a long time, but he cried very quietly, not wanting anyone to hear him, in case they came across to find out what was the matter. The dog licked his tears with a huge wet tongue, and he hugged it to him.
And yet, even as he was crying, he was thinking. Hard. So many things going round in his mind, like a squirrel in a cage.
He must keep himself clean and tidy somehow. A dirty face got you into trouble. He must comb his hair. He must keep his shoes polished and his raincoat clean. And he must get a leash for Don. And he must stay near fresh water to drink … And …
He reached for Don’s collar in the dark, twisted off the medal and threw it as far down the beach as he could. That medal was Don’s death-sentence. The police caught dogs who’d lost their owners in air raids, and had them put down on an electrified plate at the police station. They dampened the dog’s coat, then they electrocuted it. That was what Dad had said had happened to their old dog, when he got too old. He said they did it to some lovely dogs, it was a shame.
Don was his dog now.
As the last tinge of light faded, far out over the sea, he dug under the boat again, crawled in and called the dog in after him. It wouldn’t do to be on the beach after dark. People might ask questions.
He spread the blankets neatly, wishing he had a candle to see by. That was something else he’d have to lay his hands on.
He had the sand-hole neatly filled in again when his need to pee caught him in the groin like a knife. Swearing to himself, he dug the hole again, and got outside only just in time. He crawled back, thinking he had an awful lot to learn. He’d always had Mam until now, saying do this, do that, till you could scream. Now he had to say do this, do that, to himself.
Still, he was snug. He had enough blankets to make two into a pillow and give one to the dog. Except the dog snuggled up close to him, and he let it in.
He gave one deep sigh, and was asleep. All night his breathing lay hidden under the greater breathing of the sea. He wakened once, to hear rain patting on the boat. But it only made things cosier.
The dog wakened him by licking his face. He had no idea what time it was, but all along the gap between the boat and the sand, the sun was shining. The dog dug its way out with great enthusiasm, showering him with sand, bringing him fully awake. He scrambled out after it.
It was a glorious morning. The sky was blue from horizon to horizon. Little wavelets crept up the beach, gentle as a kiss. The air was still cool, the sun had just risen over the sea, and there wasn’t a soul in sight.
His first thought was that he must get clean. He stripped to his underpants, shivering, and walked out into the wavelets. He remembered learning at school that you could get yourself clean with sand, and picked up a handful of liquid sand and scrubbed his hands. He did it three times, and it worked. All the grime vanished, leaving his hands pale and wrinkled with the cold. He got another handful and scrubbed his face. The sand stung, but in a pleasant way. His mouth filled with a salty taste, but that was all right. He remembered also from school that you could clean your teeth with salt; and he cleaned them with a bit of sand and his finger, and spat out. Then he scrubbed himself with sand all over. He felt great, really alive. He wanted to swim, but he didn’t want to get his underpants