George almost tripped over an uneven cobblestone as he crossed Park Lane on his way home. His mum would say that he was always tripping over and his dad would scold him for being so clumsy, but at least this time he had managed to right himself. They would have had a laugh about it afterwards, smiling because his knobbly knees resembled the rough red brick of the house they lived in. At times his parents had to replace his trousers quicker than he grew out of them, which for a boy of his age was unusual. His friends had grown up faster and towered over him, which was strange because his dad was a tall man, and his mother was tall for a woman.
He jumped at the clattering of a tram as it passed on Church Street, shortly followed by another going the other way. He had almost forgotten how different it was to the countryside where he had been staying. Everything here was a lot tighter packed, the rows of terraced houses, the streets. He had missed it all.
He was looking forward to seeing his parents’ smiles again. It had been far too long since he had seen them, although he had no idea whether his father was still out serving with the other sailors or not. The Cartwrights had told him that it was some kind of fake or phoney war and that the Germans weren’t coming, but he didn’t really understand what they meant. It had given him hope that his dad would be at home for once. He wanted to see his great-grandad, his friends. It put a spring in his step as he passed some dockers heading the other way. They ignored him, but a small group of women pushing prams eyed him warily as he passed. He had liked being out in the countryside, but he didn’t want to live there. It was too quiet, and nothing ever happened. Not like here at home where there were always shop workers around to watch. And it was obvious that the Cartwrights didn’t like him being there.
He hadn’t thought he would be able to make it home, not when that platform guard had questioned what he was doing there, with his suitcase. There were no other children around and the Cartwrights had told him not to answer any questions or speak to strangers if they spoke to him. But the guard wouldn’t let him board the train and held a meaty palm in front of George blocking his way. So he’d had to lie, his parents wouldn’t be happy that he had told anything but the truth, but they didn’t need to know. They would just be happy to see him. He had overheard Mr and Mrs Cartwright arguing about him one evening, and knew exactly what he had to do. He had told them he wanted to go home and that he had saved up his pocket money for the train fare. They agreed that he would be better with his family, rather than with them, but had said that the evacuation billeting committee wouldn’t allow him to return home without permission from his parents.
‘My mum and dad want me to be with them,’ he had said and waved a letter under the guard’s nose. The guard looked down at him and a frown crossed his brow as he perused the letter. The Cartwrights had written it, pretending that it was from his parents, and he had copied his father’s signature for them.
‘Hmmm,’ the guard had mumbled, his eyes darting across the page. ‘Haven’t had anything like this before. You’re better off here, son. And travelling on your own too.’
The guard’s deep brown eyes had stared into George’s, reminding him of his father when he was angry with him, and George’s heart thumped in his chest.
‘Very well then. Ticket please.’
George was so relieved that he had dropped his ticket on the platform. But after that the journey had been uneventful, apart from the enquiring glances towards where he sat on his own, his suitcase held tightly on his lap. He had never been happier to see Lime Street station, filled with steam from the engines. There was nothing like it in the countryside. Liverpool was darker than George remembered, but that was all right. He was going home, and that was all that mattered right now. He was glad to be back. He hadn’t liked the other place; it was strange and smelt funny, like too much earth, a massive farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. A motorcar drove past and he relished the smell of the engine, its oil, its life. He had missed the smells of Liverpool and his home, his mother. He didn’t know whether she would be glad to see him, or whether she would be angry that he had returned without asking her. The darkness and that thought made him tense. He had never walked from the station to his home in the evening before, but he wasn’t far now, he was passing houses he had seen hundreds of times. Every one of them looked the same and it was comforting. He turned a corner and onto the main road that led to his home.
He heard the sound of other children playing, calling to each other in hushed voices. Before he could see them a palm pushed him firmly in the chest, and forced him back the way he had come. His suitcase landed where he dropped it and one of the clasps clattered loose. The boy who had pushed him was a head taller than George and broader, and the shove had winded him for a moment. George didn’t have time to catch his breath before another shove, this time from behind, propelled him forward and he fell to his knees. It wasn’t the first time in his short life that he had ended up on the ground in a scuffle, but something about this hurt more than the last time. He had been excited about coming home, and he hadn’t expected to be treated like this. It was not like any home he remembered, but at least he was no longer in the boring countryside.
He rolled over onto his bottom and looked at his knees. Bright red scrapes poked through the fabric of his trousers. The Cartwrights wouldn’t be happy with him messing up the nice new trousers they had given him, but then he hoped never to see them again. They weren’t his family, that was why he hadn’t been able to stay there. No matter how much they tried to get him to fit their way of life, their ideals, he couldn’t. They couldn’t take him away from Liverpool, it was his home. He belonged here.
‘Look at him,’ they said, laughing. ‘Sat on his arse like some kind of politician.’
‘He looks like a politician,’ one of the others joined in. ‘With them fancy clothes.’
They pinned his arms down by his sides. He was trapped, and they were never going to let him go. Not until they had stripped all his clothing and belongings from him. Not that he had much, but that hadn’t stopped them so far. They didn’t know him, they didn’t want to know him. Even if these boys had once been his neighbours, they no longer recognised each other.
‘Where’s his money? Share the wealth.’ They all spoke over one another, describing what they would do to him if he didn’t give up what he had to them. He didn’t understand what some of the words meant, but he understood enough to know that they meant to do him harm.
‘I’m one of you,’ was all he could think to say. He didn’t know what else would make them listen, make them leave him alone. Not for the first time he wished he was older than he was; then he would have the words to talk to them, make them understand, make them leave him alone. He pushed back the tears, that wouldn’t help matters. ‘Please. I don’t have any money. You could have it if I did.’
‘Ow!’ one of the boys called out as a shadow grabbed his shoulder from behind and pulled him backwards. The others turned to shout at this newcomer, raising their fists, but the words died on their lips as they saw it was an adult.
‘Get away, will you?!’ The man pulled the biggest boy away from George and waved an arm at him as he took flight. The boy tripped over the edge of the paving and scowled back in their direction, before picking himself up and running as fast as he could. The other boys didn’t stay long once their ringleader had fled. George knew that wouldn’t be the last he saw of them, but for now he had been saved.
The man chased them a few steps, kicking out at one of them, but he didn’t connect and let them go. He walked back to where George lay sprawled and bruised on the ground. Placing two big strong hands under George’s armpits he forcibly pulled him up. George’s feet touched the pavement and the man held him there for a moment to make sure that he didn’t fall over again. George couldn’t tell from the man’s dark eyes whether he was concerned or annoyed. Up close the man had a distinct smell, but George didn’t know what it was.
‘There you are,’ he said with an accent George didn’t recognise. It wasn’t like that of any of the people he knew in Liverpool, and it wasn’t like the Cartwrights’ either. Though it was closer to their Welsh lilt.
‘Thank you,’ George replied, remembering his manners as the man brushed his clothes down for him, the force almost pushing him from his feet again. His hands lingered on the torn fabric and he tutted.
Ignoring his bruises, all George could think was who was this strange man and what did he want? George had never seen him before he had come to the rescue. And why had the boys turned on him, when he had just been minding his own business? Why was the man hanging around looking out for kids fighting? There were always kids playing and fighting around here, it was nothing new. He looked the man up and down. There was nothing unique about him, but at least he smiled a friendly smile. George wanted to say more, ask those questions, but his voice stuck in his throat.
‘I should go home,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Nice to meet you, George,’ the man said, but George couldn’t remember telling him his name. He must have said something in the middle of all the confusion, maybe one of the other boys had called him by his name. The stranger handed him his suitcase, the battered clip barely holding on, and George noticed the name label there, flapping in the wind. That must have been how the man had known, but still George was uncertain about something.
‘Be seeing you,’ the stranger said, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat before heading off in the direction he had come. George watched him go, wondering whether he would see the man again. He would have to tell his mum what had happened when he got home, but then he decided not to tell her about the strange man. That story would only worry her more. If he had been older he would have said he felt like he was being watched, but he just wanted to be home now, safe in his mother’s embrace.