Copyright

HarperCollins Children’s Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd,

HarperCollins Publishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

The HarperCollins website address is

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Methuen Children’s Books Ltd in 1990

This edition published by HarperCollins Children’s Books 2016

Copyright © 1990 The Estate of Robert Westall

Why You’ll Love This Book copyright © Sophie McKenzie 2009

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2016

Cover illustration © Tom Clohosy Cole 2016

Robert Westall asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007301416

Ebook Edition © 2016 ISBN: 9780007378197

Version: 2016-07-25

For Miriam, who understood

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Why You’ll Love This Book by Sophie McKenzie

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

More Than a Story

About the Author

About the Publisher

Why You’ll Love This Book by Sophie McKenzie

What an amazing book! I mean, what an amazing book!

I love The Kingdom by the Sea for lots of reasons. For a start, there’s the way it begins … grabbing you on page one and never letting go. The story is set in the North East of England during the Second World War. Page one plunges the main character, Harry, into the middle of an air raid. Sirens, noise, confusion and exploding bombs. By the end of the first chapter, Harry has lost everything – his home, his family, even his rabbits. Reading it the first time, I was already completely hooked.

As Harry goes on the run he has to deal with some of life’s biggest challenges – finding food and shelter on a daily basis. He finds a purpose – trying to get to the island of Lindisfarne – and someone to care for – Don, the dog. As he travels around, he grows up – and this is another fantastic part of the book; the way without either us or him realising it, Harry changes and learns how to look after himself.

There’s a perfect balance in the story between exciting action where Harry faces terrible dangers, and Harry’s thoughts and feelings about his situation. You get completely inside Harry’s head and the book is really emotional, without ever being sentimental. And that’s another thing I love – the beautiful style in which the story is written. Every word counts. Nothing excessive. Nothing wasted.

Harry meets a variety of people on his travels. Some are kind and helpful, others abusive or manipulative. Harry calls himself a pilgrim at one point and, indeed, The Kingdom by the Sea is like a quest story, with Harry having to face life-threatening dangers and gain confidence before coming to the end of his journey.

Perhaps my favourite thing about this book is the ending. Don’t worry, I’m not going to give it away here! Often when I read stories the endings are disappointing. After a good story, the final pages are predictable or unrealistic. Not with The Kingdom by the Sea. As I was reaching the end of the book, I started wondering how it would finish. I was so caught up in Harry’s life and adventures I could only see two alternative endings. In the end, the story ended in a third way – one I hadn’t foreseen but which felt completely convincing.

This is such a brilliant book – it definitely inspired me to be a better writer and, most importantly, was – and is – one of the best reads, ever!

Sophie McKenzie

Sophie McKenzie is the award-winning author of Girl, Missing and Six Steps to a Girl. She was born in London, where she still lives, and worked as a journalist and editor before being able to concentrate on writing full time. In her spare time, Sophie enjoys watching football and going to the movies. Her other books include Blood Ties and The Medusa Project series.

Author’s Note:

This is a novel: not a geography book. I have taken a few liberties with my beloved Northumberland: most with the refuge towers at Lindisfarne.

Chapter One

He was an old hand at air raids now.

As the yell of the siren climbed the sky, he came smoothly out of his dreams. Not scared. Only his stomach clamped down tight for action, as his hands found his clothes laid ready in the dark. Hauled one jumper, then another, over his pyjamas. Thrust both stockinged feet together through his trousers and into his shoes. Then bent to tie his laces thoroughly. A loose lace had tripped him once, in the race to the shelter. He remembered the smashing blow as the ground hit his chin; the painful week after, not able to eat with a bitten tongue.

He grabbed his school raincoat off the door, pulling the door wide at the same time. All done by feel; no need to put the light on. Lights were dangerous.

He passed Dulcie’s door, heard Mam and Dulcie muttering to each other, Dulcie sleepy and cross, Mam sharp and urgent. Then he thundered downstairs, the crack of light from the kitchen door lighting up the edge of each stair-tread. Dad was sitting in his warden’s uniform, hauling on his big black boots, his grey hair standing up vertically in a bunch, like a cock’s comb. Without looking up, Dad said, “Bloody Hitler! Four bloody nights in a row!”

There was a strong smell of Dad’s sweaty feet, and the fag he had burning in the ashtray. That was all Harry had time to notice; he had his own job; the two objects laid ready in the chair by the door. The big roll of blankets, wrapped in a groundsheet because the shelter was damp, done up with a big leather strap of Dad’s. And Mam’s precious attaché case with the flask of hot coffee and insurance policies and other important things, and the little bottle of brandy for emergencies. He heaved the blankets on to his back, picked up the case with one hand and reached to unlock the back door with the other.

“Mind that light,” said Dad automatically. But Harry’s hand was already reaching for the switch. He’d done it all a hundred times before.

He slammed the door behind him, held his breath and listened. A single aircraft’s engines, far out to sea. Vroomah, vroomah, vroomah. A Jerry. But nothing to worry about yet. Two guns fired, one after another. Two brilliant points of white, lighting up a black landscape of greenhouse, sweet-pea trellises and cucumber-frames. A rolling carpet of echoes. Still out to sea. Safe, then.

He ran down the long back garden, with his neck prickling and the blankets bouncing against his back comfortingly. As he passed the greenhouse the rabbits thumped their heels in alarm. There was a nice cold smell of dew and cabbages. Then he was in through the shelter door, shoving the damp, mould-stinking curtain aside.

He tossed the things on to Mam’s bunk, found the tiny oil-lamp on the back girder, and lit it and watched the flame grow. Then he lit the candle under the pottery milk-cooler that kept the shelter warm. Then he undid the bundle and laid out the blankets on the right bunks and turned back to the shelter door, ready to take Dulcie from Mam. He should be hearing their footsteps any second now, the patter of Mam’s shoes and the crunch of Dad’s hobnailed boots. Dad always saw them safe in the shelter, before he went on duty. Mam would be nagging Dad – had he locked the back door against burglars? They always teased Mam about that; she must think burglars were bloody brave, burgling in the middle of air raids.

God, Mam and Dad were taking their time tonight. What was keeping them? That Jerry was getting closer. More guns were firing now. The garden, every detail of it, the bird-bath and the concrete rabbit, flashed black, white, black, white, black. There was a whispering in the air. Gun-shrapnel falling like rain … they shouldn’t be out in that. Where were they? Where were they? Why weren’t they tumbling through the shelter door, panting and laughing to be safe?

That Jerry was right overhead. Vroomah. Vroomah. Vroomah.

And then the other whistling. Rising to a scream. Bombs. Harry began to count. If you were still counting at ten, the bombs had missed you.

The last thing he remembered was saying “seven”.

His back hurt and his neck hurt. His hands scrabbled, and scrabbled damp clay, that got under his fingernails. The smell told him he was still in the shelter, but lying on the damp floor. And a cautious, fearful voice, with a slight tremble in it, was calling out:

“Is anybody down there?”

Somebody pushed the curtain across the shelter door aside, and shone a torch on him. The person was wearing a warden’s helmet, the white ‘W’ glimmering in the light of the torch. He thought at first it might be Dad. But it wasn’t Dad. It had a big black moustache; it was a total stranger.

The stranger said, to somebody else behind him, “There’s only one of them. A kid.”

“Jesus Christ,” said the somebody else. “Ask him where the rest are. There should be four in this shelter.”

“Where’s the rest, son? Where’s your mam and dad?”

“In the … I don’t know.”

“D’you mean, still in the house, son?”

The voice behind muttered, “Christ, I hate this job.” Then it said, with a sharp squeak of fear, “What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Something soft under me foot. Shine your light.”

“’Sonly a rabbit. A dead rabbit.”

“Thank God. Hey, son, can you hear me? Can you get up? Are you hurt?”

Why didn’t the man come down and help him? What was he so frightened of?

Harry got up slowly. He hurt nearly all over, but not so badly that he couldn’t move. The man gave him a hand and pulled him up out of the shelter. Harry peered up the garden. He could see quite well because the sky to the west was glowing pink.

There was no greenhouse left.

There was no house left. The houses to each side were still standing, though their windows had gone, and their slates were off.

“Where’s our house?”

There was a silence. Then the man with the moustache said, “What’s yer name, son?” Harry told him.

“And what was yer dad’s name? And yer mam’s?” He wrote it all down in a notebook, like the police did, when they caught you scrumping apples.

He gave them Dulcie’s name too. He tried to be helpful. Then he said, “Where are they?” and began to run up the garden path.

The man grabbed him, quick and rough.

“You can’t go up there, son. There’s a gas leak. A bad gas leak. Pipe’s fractured. It’s dangerous. It’s against the law to go up there.”

“But my mam and dad’re up there …”

“Nobody up there now, son. Come down to the Rest Centre. They’ll tell you all about it at the Rest Centre.”

Harry just let himself be led off across some more gardens. It was easy, because all the fences were blown flat. They went up the path of number five. The white faces of the Humphreys, who lived at number five, peered palely from the door of their shelter. They let him pass, without saying anything to him.

In the road, the wardens who were leading him met two other wardens.

“Any luck at number nine?”

“Just this lad …”

There was a long, long silence. Then one of the other wardens said, “We found the family from number seven. They were in the garden. The bomb caught them as they were running for the shelter …”

“They all right?”

“Broken arms and legs, I think. But they’ll live. Got them away in the ambulance.”

Harry frowned. The Simpsons lived at number seven. There was some fact he should be able to remember about the Simpsons. But he couldn’t. It was all … mixed up.

“Come on, son. Rest Centre for you. Can you walk that far?”

Harry walked. He felt like screaming at them. Only that wouldn’t be a very British thing to do. But something kept building up inside him; like the pressure in his model steam-engine.

Where was his steam-engine?

Where was Mam, who could cuddle him and make everything all right?

Where was Dad in his warden’s uniform, who would sort everything out?

Next second, he had broken from their hands, and was running up another garden path like a terrified rabbit. He went through another gate, over the top of another air-raid shelter, through a hedge that scratched him horribly … on, and on, and on.

He heard their voices calling him as he crouched in hiding. They seemed to call a long time. Then one of them said, “That wasn’t very clever.”

“It’s the shock. Shock takes them funny ways. You can never tell how shock’s going to take them.”

“Hope he’s not seriously hurt, poor little bleeder.”

‘Kid that can run like that …?”

And then their voices went away, leaving him alone.

So he came to his house, slowly, up his garden.

He found his three rabbits; they were all dead, though there wasn’t a mark on them. Where the greenhouse had been was a tangle of wrecked tomato plants, that bled green, and gave off an overpowering smell of tomato.

The house was just a pile of bricks. Not a very high pile, because everything had fallen down into the old cellar.

There was a smell of gas; but the gas was burning. Seeping up through the bricks and burning in little blue points of flame, all in the cracks between the bricks. It looked like a burning slag-heap, and he knew why the wardens had given up hope and gone away.

He knew he must go away too. Before anybody else found him, began to ask him questions, and do things to him. Because he felt like a bomb himself, and if anyone did anything to him, he would explode into a million pieces and nobody would ever be able to put him back together again.

Especially, he mustn’t be given to Cousin Elsie. Cousin Elsie, who would clutch his head to her enormous bosom, and sob and call him “poor bairn” and tell everybody who came all about it, over and over and over again. He’d seen her do that when Cousin Tommy died of diphtheria. Cousin Elsie was more awful than death itself.

No, he would go away. Where nobody knew him. Where nobody would make a fuss. Just quietly go away.

Having made his mind up, he felt able to keep moving. There were useful things to do. The blankets in the shelter to bundle up and take with him. The attaché case. All proper, as Mam and Dad would have wanted it.

It seemed to take him a long time to get the blankets bundled up exactly right and as he wanted them.

In the faint light before dawn, he even managed to find Dad’s spade and bury his three rabbits. They had been his friends; he didn’t want anybody finding them and making a meal of them. He even found some wooden seed markers, and wrote the rabbits’ names on them, and stuck them in for tombstones.

Then he went, cutting across the long stretch of gardens and out into Brimble Road, where hardly anybody knew him.

He looked dirty, tear-stained, and exactly like a refugee. His face was so still and empty, nobody, even Cousin Elsie, would have recognised him.

He felt … he felt like a bird flying very high, far from the world and getting further away all the time. Like those gulls who soar on summer thermals and then find they cannot get down to earth again, but must wait till the sun sets, and the land cools, and the terrible strength of the upward thermal releases them to land exhausted. Only he could not imagine ever coming to earth again, ever. Back to where everything was just as it always had been, and you did things without thinking about them.

He supposed he would just walk till he died. It seemed the most sensible thing to do.

Chapter Two

He must have wandered round the town all day, in circles. Every so often, he would come to himself, and realise he was in Rudyerd Street, or Nile Street.

But what did Rudyerd Street mean? What did Nile Street mean? Sometimes he thought he would go home, and Dulcie would be swinging on the front gate, shouting rude things at the big boys as they passed, but running to the safety of Mam’s kitchen if they made a move to attack her. And Mam would be doing the ironing, or putting the stew in the oven.

But the moment he turned his steps towards home, the truth came back to him; the burning pile of bricks. And he would turn his steps away again.

The last time he came to himself, he was somewhere quite different.

On the beach. The little beach inside the harbour mouth, that didn’t have to be fenced off with barbed wire because it was under the direct protection of the Castle guns.

He suddenly felt very tired and sat down with a thump on the sand, with his back against a black tarry boat. He closed his eyes and laid back his head; the warmth of the sun smoothed out his face, like Mam had often done with her hands. He smelt the tar of the boat and it was a nice smell; it was the first thing he’d smelt since the burning gas, and it was a comforting smell. The sun warmed his hands as they lay on the sand, and his knees under his trousers, and in a very tiny world, it was nice, nice, nice. It felt as if somebody cared about him, and was looking after him.

On the edge of sleep, he said, “Mam?” questioningly. And then he was asleep.

He dreamed it was just a usual day at home, with Dulcie nagging on, and Mam baking, and Dad coming in from work and taking his boots off with a satisfied sigh. He dreamed he shouted at them, “There you all are! Where have you been?”

And they all laughed at him, and said, “Hiding, silly!” And it was all right.

The all-rightness stayed with him when he woke; a feeling they were not far away. He lay relaxed; as he remembered lying relaxed in his pram when he was little and watching the leaves of trees blowing, whispering and sunlit overhead. As long as he didn’t move he knew the bubble of happiness would not break. But if he moved, he knew they would go away and leave him again.

So he lay on, dreamily. The sun still shone, though it was setting, and the shadows of the cliff were creeping out towards him. And that he knew was bad. When the shadow reached him the sun would be gone, the world would turn grey, a cold breeze would blow.

And it would be time to go home. Like the three girl bathers who were walking up the beach towards him, chattering and laughing and feebly hitting each other with wet towels. They had a home; he had no home. There was a sort of glass wall between people who had a home and people who hadn’t.

He watched them pass and get into a little black car that was waiting to pick them up. He thought, with a twinge of resentment, that some people could still get petrol for cars even in wartime. Black market. It would serve them right if the police caught them.

Then the car moved off with a puff of blue smoke, and he felt even more lonely. The shadow of the cliff grew nearer. And nearer.

“Please help,” he said to the soft warm air, and the dimming blue sky. “Don’t leave me.” He felt the approach of another night alone as if it was a monster.

The shadow of the cliff was only a yard away now. He reached out his arm and put his hand into it; it felt cold, like putting your hand in water, icy water.

And yet still he hoped, as the shadow crept up his arm.

He closed his eyes and felt the shadow creeping, like the liquid in a thermometer. Only it wasn’t recording heat, it was recording cold.

And then he heard an explosive snort, just in front of him. Sat upright, startled, and opened his eyes.

It was a dog. A dog sitting watching him. A dog who had been in the sea, because its black fur was all spikes. A dog who had been rolling in the sand, because the spikes were all sandy. The dog watched him with what seemed to be very kind eyes. But then most dogs had kind eyes.

The dog held its paw up to him, and hesitantly he took it. The dog woofed twice, softly, approvingly, then took its paw back.

Was this his miracle? He looked round swiftly, for an owner, before he let himself hope.

There was no one else on the beach, just him and the dog.

But lots of dogs came down to the beach on their own and made friends with anybody, for an afternoon. And there was a medal on the dog’s collar.

Not breathing, not daring to hope, he pulled the dog to him by the collar, and read the medal.

The dog was called Don, and lived at 12 Aldergrove Terrace.

Harry shut his eyes, and he couldn’t even have told himself whether he closed them in gladness or horror.

Aldergrove Terrace had been a very posh and very short terrace. Three weeks ago, Aldergrove Terrace had been hit by a full stick of German bombs. Anybody in Aldergrove who was still alive was in hospital … permanently.

He opened his eyes, and looked at his fellow survivor. The dog was a sort of small, short-legged Alsatian. It looked quite fit, but rather thin and uncared-for. It certainly hadn’t been combed in a long time, and people had combed their dogs in Aldergrove every day. It had been that sort of place.

He pulled the dog towards him again, almost roughly. It willingly collapsed against his leg and lay staring out to sea, its mouth open and its tongue gently out. He stroked it. The sandy fur was nearly dry, and he could feel the warmth of its body seeping out damply against his leg.

They stayed that way a long time, a long contented time, just being together. Long ago, they’d had a dog at number nine, but it had got old and died. It was good to have a dog again, and the way the dog delighted in his hand, he knew it was glad to have found somebody as well. He dreamily watched the little waves breaking on the sand; glad he wasn’t alone any more.

And then the dog stood up, and shook itself, and whined, watching him with those warm eyes. It wanted something from him.

“What is it, boy?” The sound of his own voice startled him. He hadn’t spoken to anybody since he ran away from the wardens. “What do you want, boy?”

The dog whined again, and then nudged with its long nose at the bundle of blankets, sniffing. Then it turned, and nosed at the attaché case, pushing it through the sand.

The dog was hungry. And he had nothing to give it, nothing in the world. And suddenly he felt terribly hungry himself.

It threw him into a panic of helplessness. It was getting dark as well, and he had nothing to eat and nowhere to sleep. He put his face in his hands, and rocked with misery. And then he remembered his father’s voice saying, angrily, “Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think, son, think.”

It was the boat he noticed first; the boat he had been leaning against. The owner had turned it upside-down, to stop the rain getting in, like they always did. But that had been a long time ago. This boat hadn’t been used for years; the black, tarry paint was splitting, peeling, blistering. There was a half-inch crack, where the stern met the side. That meant …

Safety. A hiding place. A roof for the night, if it started to rain. There was a gap on this side, between the boat and the sand. Only six inches, but he could make it bigger. He began to scrabble at the sand with his hands. The sand came easily; it was soft and dry. Soon he managed to wriggle through the hole he had made. Inside, it was dark, apart from the cracks in the stern, where some light came in. But it smelt sweetly of the sea and old tar, and dry wood. The dog wriggled through to join him, licking his face, sure it was a game. He pushed it away and reached out and dragged in the bundle of blankets and the attaché case. There was plenty of room; it was a big boat, a fishing boat. He squatted by the entrance, like a Mohican in his wigwam. He’d solved one problem, and it gave him strength.

Now, food. He racked his brains. Then remembered there had always been a big fish and chip shop in Front Street. It wouldn’t sell much fish now, because the trawlers were away on convoy-escort. But it still sold chips and sausages cooked in batter. All the fish and chip shops did.

But … money.

He searched desperately through his pockets for odd pennies and ha’pennies.

And his fingers closed on the milled edge of a big fat two-shilling piece. Yesterday had been Thursday, and Dad had given him his week’s pocket-money as usual. It all seemed so very far away, but there was the big fat florin in his hand. He rubbed the edge in the dim light, to make sure it was real, not just a penny.

He took a deep breath, and wormed out through the hole again, followed by the dog. He was in a hurry now; his stomach was sort of dissolving into juice at the thought of the battered sausages. He didn’t like the idea of leaving his blankets and the precious attaché case behind, but he couldn’t carry them and the chips as well. Besides, they would make him look conspicuous. They would have to take their chance, as Dad always said, when he and Harry planted out tiny seedlings, watered them, and left them for the night. Harry shook his head savagely, to shake away the memory, and the sting of hot tears that pricked at his eyes suddenly. He smoothed back the sand to conceal the hole he had dug, and set off for Front Street, the dog running ahead and marking the lamp-posts as if this was an ordinary evening stroll along the sea front.

Even a hundred yards away, the breeze carried the appetising smell to his nostrils. The shop wasn’t shut then; he felt full of triumph. There was a crowd of people in the shop and they hadn’t drawn the blackout curtains yet.

He pushed open the door, and the dog nosed past him eagerly, nostrils working. The owner of the shop, a tall bald man in a long greasy white apron, looked over the heads of his customers and saw them, and Harry instantly knew he was a very nasty man indeed, even before he opened his mouth.

“Get that dirty great animal out of here! This is a clean shop, a food shop!”

Covered with confusion, blushing furiously, Harry grabbed the dog’s collar, and dragged him out. He pushed the dog’s bottom to the pavement, and shouted, “Sit! Sit!” The dog looked at him trustingly, wagging his tail, and Harry dived back into the shop again, before the dog changed his mind. He joined the back of the queue which was about six people long.

“Filthy great beast,” said the man, to no one in particular. “I don’t know what this town’s coming to.” He shovelled great mounds of golden chips into newspaper and said to the woman helping him, “More batter, Ada,” equally nastily.

Harry heard the shop door open again, and the next second, Don was beside him, leaping up at the glass counter with eager paws, and leaving dirty scratchmarks on the glass.

“I told you, get that bloody animal out of here! I won’t tell you again!”

Harry grabbed Don a second time. He could feel tears starting to gather in his eyes. He hauled him out, as two more people passed him to join the queue inside. He had lost his 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.

Chapter Three

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 soaking. Then he thought that the sun would dry them, as it had once dried his swimming-costume, and plunged in regardless. The sea was much warmer than the air. He swam and swam. He loved swimming. He imagined he was a fish, without a care in the world.

Then he looked up, and saw the dog’s face swimming in front of him. The dog also looked terribly happy, and was carrying a crooked black stick in his mouth. It dropped it in the water in front of him. It wanted it thrown. He tried to stand up in the water, found he was too far out when his head went under, and scrambled back to the shore in a flurry of arms and legs and foam. But he wasn’t really worried. This was the Haven, and his dad had always said that the Haven was safe, no undertow, no currents. Safest place in Northumberland.

When he found his footing, the dog brought him the stick again, and he spent ages throwing it out to sea. He thought the dog would never tire but, eventually, it ran up the beach, dived under the boat, and emerged with a newspaper packet in its mouth. Last night’s spare sausage and chips …

He yelled at it, suddenly furious. He was in charge; the dog was getting above itself. He tried to grab the packet from its mouth, but it wouldn’t let go, shaking its head to throw off his hand, and backing away all the time. Beside himself with rage, he hit it with the crooked black stick that he still held in his other hand. It closed its eyes, but it wouldn’t let go. He hit it harder, and it growled deep in its throat.

Perhaps it was lucky that the stick broke. He put both hands to the packet of newspaper and pulled with all his might. The newspaper tore on the dog’s teeth, and he had it. The dog made a snatch for it, but he held it high in the air.

The dog leapt and knocked him flat. But he kept hold of the packet, clutching it into his armpit as he fell, like a rugby ball at school. The dog kept nosing in, but he twisted and turned. Several times, he felt the dog’s naked teeth touch his skin; but the dog didn’t bite him.

At last they stopped, and glared at each other. He couldn’t read the look on the dog’s face, but he wasn’t scared of dogs. He would show it who was boss.

“Sit, boy, sit!”

It sat, at last, tail swishing vigorously. He began to unwrap the packet and it dived in again. He hit it on the nose, and it backed off.

The battle seemed to go on forever, but at last the dog learned to sit still, until he had unwrapped the whole packet and laid out its share. Then it dived in, without waiting for the word of command.

He sat back with a sigh, and ate his own. It was a victory of sorts. He ate his sausage, which tasted good. He thought the chips would be awful, but they tasted good as well. When he was finished he looked down at his bare stomach. It was bulging – but it felt good and solid and cheering. And his underpants, though sandy, were nearly dry. And now the sun touched warmly on his back, and he came out in goose-pimples.

He looked all round, cautiously. There was still nobody about, though there was smoke coming from the chimney of one of the coastguard cottages on the headland. He thought he had time for a quick explore, along the tide-line, where you always found the interesting things.

The dog thought that was great. It began pouncing on all the patches of seaweed, killing them with its feet, dive-bombing them, then throwing them high in the air. He tried calling it to heel, as he had seen men do when they were walking their dogs on the beach.

It ignored him. He made up his mind to work on it. Its disobedience could get them both into trouble. It was then that he found the lump of soaking rope. He tried it for strength, stamping on one end, and pulling the other end with both hands. It seemed pretty strong, and it was one yard long, with frayed ends. He knew there was no point in calling the dog, but he waved the rope enticingly, and the dog came, and he grabbed its collar, and slipped the rope through. The dog promptly took off along the beach, dragging him after it. It was stronger than he was, and heavier. All he could do was hang on. The dog made terrible noises, like it was choking itself to death. But he hung on. He had to win. For both their sakes. It was a good dog, but only young. It had to learn.

Finally, it got tired of strangling itself, and walked quietly by his side. It was then he found the other useful thing. A washing-day ladle, like Mam used. About eight inches across, rusty, but it had no holes in it. It would do to give the dog water in. He came back to the boat full of triumph, and got dressed. As he did, two more pennies fell out of his trouser pocket. He searched every pocket after that, and ended up with threepence ha’penny.

He stared at it, lying in the pale palm of his hand, and despair fell on him, without warning, out of a clear blue sky, like a collapsing house. What good was threepence ha’penny? It wouldn’t even buy them a meal to share tonight. Only chips. And when the chips were gone, what then? And the next day, and the next, getting hungrier and hungrier. He could only get food by going to Cousin Elsie’s; and he knew what Uncle George would do with the dog. Straight down to the police station.

He stared at the sand for a long, long time. The dog, puzzled, impatient, leapt up and put its paws on his shoulders and looked at him trustingly. He could have died of agony.

And then he remembered his father’s voice again.

“Don’t flap around like a wet hen. Think!”

And immediately, he realised he did have some money. In the Trustee Savings Bank. Seventeen pounds, ten shillings. All the money from all the birthdays and Christmases that Mam had made him save when he wanted to go out and spend it. Saving up for a rainy day, she had called it, when he raged and pleaded with her.

But where was the bank book?

In the attaché case, of course.

He dived in under the boat, and clicked open the case with trembling hands. There was a bundle of bank books, held together neatly by an elastic band. Dad’s on top, then Mam’s, then his. He opened it. It said, in neat curling writing, seventeen pounds, ten shillings. And he knew how to get it out; you only had to fill in a form, that was all. He had enough to keep himself and the dog for months. Wild excitement blew through him like a gale. He must get it! Now!

Then his eye drifted round the rest of the case; over the other precious things it contained. Dad’s best wristwatch, the one he only used for special occasions, in case it got scratched. The bright pink insurance books. A wedding photograph in a small silver frame, with Mam and Dad looking smooth, smiling and young. His own photograph in school uniform, from when he first went to the grammar school; a neat bundle of school reports. How proud of him they’d been! Tears pricked again, so he rushed on, being practical. The family ration books … a bar of Mam’s pongy special toilet soap, still in its paper wrapper. The scent wafted up to his nostrils … and he felt suddenly terribly guilty, as if he was burgling a church. He was never allowed to look inside the attaché case; it was private to Mam and Dad.

He took his own bank book and then slammed the case shut and clicked in the fasteners loudly. Well, as long as he carried the attaché case, Mam and Dad would still be with him. Like the Ark of the Covenant that the children of Israel carried all the way to the Promised Land.

To soothe himself, he carefully folded the blankets into a neat heap, then came out of the boat and smoothed down the sand to hide the entrance, and sat playing with the dog’s ears till his breathing came back to normal.

Not a moment too soon. There was a man coming out of the coastguard cottage, the one with the smoking chimney. Walking down the beach towards him. Harry could tell from the way he walked that he wasn’t a bad bloke. He walked slow and steady and contented, puffing on his pipe, stopping to look at things and touch them. Only a bit bossy, perhaps. As if it was his place.

“Good morning, young feller-me-lad! You’re the early bird that catches the worm!”

“Been swimming,” said Harry.

“So Aah noticed, while Aah was shaving. Said to the missus there was a young feller-me-lad, having a grand time wi’ his dog, on a Saturday morning early. Grand dog!” He bent and patted it. “What’s his name?”

“Don.”

The man looked for a name-medal on the collar and didn’t find any. “Dog could do with a combing. Sand won’t do his coat no good.”

“I always comb him when I get home.” Harry was amazed how neatly the lie popped out. Then he said, “What time is it, mister?”

“Half-past eight,” said the man, pulling out a pocket watch. “Better be on me way up yonder.” He pointed to the Coastguard Station on the cliff. “Just thought Aah’d have a word wi’ you, seeing you was having so much fun wi’ your dog. Only,” he added, “you could do wi’ a pair of bathing-trunks, instead of bathing in yer underpants. We’ll have young girls down here, later on.” He glanced around. “A towel wouldn’t do you any harm, either.” Harry glanced at him, suddenly hunched-up, wary. But the man gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Aah didn’t tell me mam all Aah was doing when Aah was young either.” And he was gone, leaving only a fragrant whiff of his tobacco smoke.

Chapter Four

Three hours later, Harry lay back on the sand by the boat, closed his eyes, and let his mind stop whirling. What a terrible trip! He was never, never, never going up into the town again. Tommy Dodds had seen him, and Audrey Henry’s mother, and he’d only missed running into Cousin Elsie by diving up a back alley like a shot rabbit. He still wasn’t sure she hadn’t seen him. And the terrible wait in the bank, while the man counted out his money three times before he gave it to him, and he worried about Don tied to a lamp-post outside … when he’d got out, he took the bus straight back to Tynemouth. Thank God he’d had that threepence ha’penny, or he’d have had to give the conductor a ten-shilling note for the fare. And the conductor had still fussed about how sandy the dog was, and how it was making a mess of his bus … It had been stupid to go up into the town on a Saturday when everybody was out shopping. If he went on making stupid mistakes like that, he’d get caught for certain.

But Tynemouth village had been better. Nobody knew him in Tynemouth. And he’d had a good shopping-spree, ten-shilling notes or no ten-shilling notes. There were still things to buy that were not on the rations. The pet-shop woman had been nice and friendly. Sold him a leash for the dog, and a steel curry-comb, and a big bag of dog biscuits. And some anti-flea soap, that would do for them both. She had pursed her lips over the note, but he’d said, “It’s me birthday present,” and she had told him he was a kind boy, spending all his birthday present on his dog. Then he’d gone to the butcher’s, and got some bones for the dog, and looked at the Cornish pasties so hungrily that the man had said, with a grin, “Do you want one? You can’t live on doggy-bones, a growing lad like you.”

And lastly he had gone to the newsagents, and bought two boxes of matches, because he thought they were sure to come in useful, and the biggest newspaper he could see. Not that he cared a damn about the news, but certain movements in his tummy told him he was going to need a newspaper tonight after dark. God, life was all food going in one end, and out the other.

But for the moment, he was content. Full of Cornish pasty, watching the dog chew at his big bone, and watching the girls go past in their bathing costumes through the pair of dark glasses he’d thought on to buy at the chemist’s.

The chip-shop man saw him coming. Long before 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 target.

The ack-ack men at South Shields must be trying to shoot them out. Long streams of tracer shells, yellow and red, climbed slowly into the sky from behind South Shields pier. They made the blue lights rock and swing harder, but they didn’t put them out. Then the Castle guns fired again, making Don flinch; making a pattern of four bright stars in the sky that burnt holes in your eyes, so that wherever you looked afterwards, there were four black holes in what you looked at. And it all smelt like Guy Fawkes night.

It was … grand. Grand like a thunderstorm, if you were out in it, and not afraid of being hit by lightning. It made Harry feel huge, as huge as the sky.

And then he saw the German bomber, clear and sharp as a minnow in a pond, caught in a cone of no less than five searchlights. It wriggled, glistened like a minnow, a minnow with a shiny nose and tiny crosses on its wings, a minnow trying to escape out of a giant hand. But the giant hand of light held it, twist and turn though it might. Then every gun on Tyneside seemed to be firing at it. Again and again, it vanished in the scatters of blinding flashes. Harry’s eyes seemed as full of black holes as Mam’s collander. But when the flashes had gone, the tiny plane was still there, twisting and turning and getting bigger. It didn’t seem to be going anywhere any more, just wriggling, trying to escape.

And then there was a streak of fire. Then a comet, a shooting star of brilliant yellow, heading out to sea, down to the sea. Down and down and down, brighter and brighter and brighter, better than a two-shilling rocket. And then it burst into a brilliant shower of blue lights, that were caught by the wind and drifted and went out, all but one that glowed all the way down to the dark water.

The guns were silent, so you heard the hiss it made as it hit the sea; heard the people cheering, all the way over the dark water, in South Shields.

He hugged the dog. “We got one, boy, we got one.” It was better than North Shields football team scoring a goal. In the silence, the dog thumped its tail against his leg, and licked his hand.

And then the next wave of Jerries came vroomahing in.

It was dawn before the Jerries stopped coming, and the all-clear went. He and the dog came out of their deep, deep shelter. The dog stretched, fore and aft, sniffed an upturned boat and peed against it. Harry, walking on what felt like two wooden legs, watched it with great fondness. Don was wonderful. He’d heard the bombers coming, long before the siren went; he’d found the best shelter. Above all, he’d been close to the dog, to its furry warm bulk. The dog had been closer to him than Mam had been, let alone Dad.

He thought he and the dog made a pretty good team. He sat on his upturned boat, and watched the dog sniffing around the beach. Nice to sit in peace and quiet, listening to the little waves plopping on the sand, after the great storm of the night.

But today, Sunday, they had to move on. Before someone noticed him on the beach on Monday morning, and caught him as a truant from school. Before the food ran out. Before the dog went through again what he had gone through last night.

Away. Up the coast. To where there were no people to bother them. To where there was plenty of food.

He knew he wasn’t thinking very straight. He needed more sleep. He called to the dog, lured it to him with its share of cold sausage and chips. Then got it through the hole, under the boat, and in a little while they were both sound asleep.

Chapter Five

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.

Chapter Six

“This is as far as we go, sonny Jim,” said the conductor. “Unless you want to go back to Tynemouth. Where d’you live?”

God, adults got suspicious so quickly. Harry had been dozing, but he had the sense to say, “Across the river.” That was all he knew about Blyth; that it had a river. It was ten miles from home, and he’d never been there in his life.

“You’ll just catch the last ferry,” said the conductor and nodded his head instinctively in a certain direction. Harry grabbed his stuff, all of a shake, and set off in the direction the man had nodded. As he set off, he heard the conductor say to the driver, “Some folks have no sense, letting their bairns wander round this time of night wi’ the air raids and all.”

It was late. The bus seemed to have taken forever. The sun was gone; it was getting dark. He began to hurry. There was no point spending the night here. Blyth was bombed as often as Tynemouth; there were a lot of gaps in the streets of houses. And his mam said Blyth was full of roughs and drunks. He knew he was heading for the river all right, because of the towering dockside cranes. But the river was the roughest part of any town.

And as he turned down the ferry landing, he met two roughs. Men in dirty caps. He didn’t like the way they stopped, and watched him approach. The way they filled the whole footpath, blocking his way.

“By, that’s a grand dog ye’ve got there. A grand expensive dog.”

“Worth a pretty penny, that dog. Where did ye find him? Is he lost?”

“What ye got in the case, laddy? Show us what you got in the case! We’re policemen.”

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