Robert Westall - The Kingdom by the Sea

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.