Читать книгу The Kingdom by the Sea - Robert Westall - Страница 12

He started awake, and pushed back the blankets. He was very hot, and there was a small of melting tar, and, worst of all, voices all around him. And the dog was gone.

He must have slept too long. It was Sunday afternoon. On Sunday morning, the beach was empty, except for a few men walking their dogs. But on Sunday afternoons in summer, even in wartime, it filled up with families out for the day. People were sitting with their backs against his boat, blocking out the strip of sunshine. Until they went home, he was trapped. And they usually didn’t go home till about six o’clock.

And where was the dog? He could see the place where it had scrabbled out. How long had it been gone? Where had it gone? Had it gone for good? There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t scramble out after it, in full view of everybody. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the people sitting round; it was more a terrible embarrassment at making a fool of himself, of being stared at when he was all dirty and sweaty and peculiar-looking. And his Cousin Elsie, or somebody else he knew might be sitting there.

All he could do was push back the blankets and lie there, and munch another soggy mass of cold chips, and worry about the dog. It was more horrible than being in the shelter during an air raid.

It was the voices that soothed him in the end. The family sitting against the boat, at least, were strangers. A mum and dad, three kids and a granny. They had rough accents; they must come from further up the river. Somewhere like Byker. When the granny said, “I’ve lived in Byker all me life, and I’ve never seen anything like that in all my born days,” it cheered him slightly that he had guessed right.

He sort of lost himself in the life of the family. Bossy mum, idle dad.

“Why don’t you play cricket with the bairns, George? They’re bored stiff!”

“Why, there’s no room to play cricket, hinny. There’s not room to swing a cat. Don Bradman hisself couldn’t play cricket here.”

“Well, do something with them!”

“Woman, Aah slave six days a week at the North Eastern Marine, an’ even God rested on the seventh day.”

“There’s our Edith throwing sand in Sammy’s eyes again. Stop it, our Edith, or you’ll feel the back o’ my hand. Cannit ye get them an ice-cream, George? Aah could do wi’ one meself.”

“Ice-cream? Hinny, there’s a war on.”

“There’s a feller at the top o’ the bank …”

“Bloody Italian black marketeer … you don’t know what they put in them things. Vaseline an’ hair-cream an’ anything else they can lay their hands on … would poison a dog.”

“Mam, tell our Edith to stop it.”

“Our Edith …!”

It was like going back into another life.

And soon there was some good news.

“Mam, this dog’s lost. It’s starving. Look, it’s putting its paw up, asking. It’s begging.”

“Gerraway, Alsatians can’t beg. They’re too big.”

“It’s hungry. Give it that piece of pie Gran dropped in the sand.”

“Oh, here y’are then. Anything for peace. D’you think that dog is lost, George?”

Harry tensed up with terror.

“No, it’s not lost, hinny. It’s gorra collar. It’s just on the cadge. I’ve watched it cadging off people for the last hour. It’s doin’ all right. Whoever starves, it won’t be that dog. C’mere, boy. Have a sandwich. Best spam.”

“Get it away. I don’t like Alsatians, they’re savage.”

“’Bout as savage as a new-born lamb. Look, he’s rolling over to have his tummy tickled.”

Harry listened for a little while longer to the dog cadging food round the beach. It struck him that Don had more talents than he’d imagined. Don was indeed doing all right.

Then he dozed off again. He could just sleep and sleep these days. Must be the heat.

He was wakened by the dog’s wet nose, nudging him forcefully in the neck. He came to with a start, worrying about the people. But there was silence outside. When he peered out, the beach was empty. It was later than he wanted it to be. The sun was already dropping towards the cliff top. Night was coming, and with the night, the bombers.

He packed up quickly, shaking the sand out of the blankets. But he took time to wash his face and hands with the anti-flea soap. You had to have a clean face. The water freshened him up. He was busting to go to the toilet, but he held out till he got to the toilet by the bus station.

There was a bus in, going up the coast to Blyth. And he found he had plenty of loose change in his pocket. The driver and conductor had got out, to have a smoke under the clock-tower so he had time to get Don nicely settled, on a tight lead before the conductor dimped his fag and came aboard.

“Where to, young feller-me-lad?”

“Single. All the way,” Harry said vaguely.

“Fourpence.” The man handed him his ticket, and eyed his luggage. “Been out for the day?”

“On the beach. Camping.”

“By God, it’s grand to be young.” The man left him and went to tend the passengers upstairs.

The bus started, and swung out round the clock-tower. Harry’s heart gave a sudden lurch. He was glad to get away from the bombers, and from anybody who might recognise him. But this was home, for the last time. There was Bertorelli’s, where they’d come down on a Saturday night for an ice-cream, even in the depths of winter, and then back home by bus, to hear “Inspector Hornleigh Investigates” on the radio.

He was off for pastures new. He swallowed several times, and took a firm grip on Don’s collar.