2

Joseph had no idea how far from the station the woman’s home was, but he was starting to wonder whether they would reach it before the war ended.

The bus crawled through the streets, feeling every bump and hole with a shudder that travelled through its wheels and up into the bodies of its passengers.

Joseph fizzed and bubbled, his turned head resting on the window, adding to the vibrations.

He’d never seen anything like it: never been in the city before, any city, but in his head, it had never looked like this. He’d expected tall buildings, stretching into the sky, all brick and stone and permanent, not rubble and smoke and carnage.

His eyes fell on the first floor of one building, the front wall obliterated, fragments of chairs and tables scattered: a single framed picture somehow clinging stoically to a nail. It was a painting of a tropical beach: paradise, smack-bang in the middle of hell.

The house next to it was equally shambolic, and no less surreal. Again, the front wall had surrendered, but there was no furniture to be seen, only a capsized wooden box, from which poured Christmas decorations. Baubles sat wedged beside fallen timbers: stray pieces of tinsel blinked and shone.

Ten minutes later and only a few yards on, he saw a boy, little older than himself, perched on a crate in front of a bookshop. The door and windows lay scattered at his feet, beside a very tidy pile of books. The boy was flicking his way through a large volume. When he reached the end, he pulled himself up, clambered through the rubble, and returned the book to a shelf.

Joseph found his top lip curling in disgust. Why the boy didn’t shove the books under his coat and make off with them, he had no idea, but more fool him.

There had been little in the way of conversation between Joseph and Mrs F since they’d left the station. She had tried, but there had been no conviction in her efforts, and as Joseph merely offered monosyllabic grunts in reply, the pair were left to listen to the voices of other passengers, not a happy sound to be heard amongst them.

‘Found him on the corner of Lunham Road, they did. Some of him anyway, his left leg and wallet were seventy yards on. Not that there was anything in it... his wallet, that is.’

‘We’ve not seen the end yet, you know...’

‘There’ll be sirens again tonight, you mark my words. The phony war wasn’t as bad as we thought, eh?’

The voices became noise to Joseph, static, the kind that used to crackle out of Dad’s wireless, no matter how hard he tried to tune it in.

He exhaled, hard, though it did nothing to dispel the frustration buzzing in him. The bus had stopped again and was showing no sign of moving, clouds belching from its back end in protest.

‘Enough,’ tutted Mrs F, pulling her bag from the floor but leaving Joseph’s where they were. ‘We’ll do the rest on foot. Come on, before they enlist us to clear the rubble.’

Joseph struggled behind her, not caring when his luggage clouted each and every passenger unfortunate enough to have an aisle seat. He clattered down the rear stairs too, and through the open exit at the back of the bus.

It made him wonder if anything in this city had a door any more.

‘Keep up. I don’t have the time or inclination to be searching for you between now and home. Today’s been long enough as it is.’ She forged a path past the bus and the toppled building blocking its path, and beyond a group of kids playing a macabre game of Finders Keepersin the rubble.

There was no end of sights and sounds for Joseph to drink in: houses without roofs, roofs without walls, newspaper men and bible-clutchers both shouting about the end of the world. But if any of it did impress or bewitch him, he refused to show it on his face, and followed Mrs F sullenly, leaving enough of a gap so it didn’t look like he was obeying her.

‘Almost there,’ she barked, which was a relief. His hands were turning blue. Early February was no time to be out without gloves, and his hands burned with cold as they clung stiffly to his baggage.

Finally, she turned left onto a street called Calmly View, which looked identical to every other they’d seen so far, in that only half of it seemed to be left standing.

‘Right, this is us,’ she said, pushing at a gate that was as reluctant as the boy behind her. The front door opened more easily, revealing a hallway darker than the street.

‘Shoes off at the door. Outside stays outside.’ Though she made no effort to remove the boots from her own feet.

‘Sitting room is on the right. Sundays only. Leave your shoes by the front door and pile your luggage neatly by the stairs. You can move it shortly. Follow me.’

Joseph wondered what was behind the door in front of them. A flick of a switch revealed a starkly lit room that seemed to match the woman’s personality: cold and lifeless. Barring a tin bath tacked to the wall and a series of austere family photographs, there was little else. The stove was unlit, much like her heart, Joseph thought to himself. From the tiny amount of wood and coal piled next to it, it didn’t look like it would be warming any time soon either.

‘Cold in here,’ he said.

‘Yes, well, best get used to it. That’s the last of the coke, and we’ve not had a delivery in weeks. Not since the last of the lads from the coal yard was conscripted.

‘Lavvie is through the back door and on the left. Don’t be wasting paper in there. And don’t be flushing unnecessarily. Same’s to be said of electricity. No reading in bed, unless it’s by candlelight. In fact, scratch that. Can’t say I like the idea of you and a flame alone together.’

Her words bounced off him. There was little chance of him bothering a book at any time.

‘Look.’ She was staring at him now, her gaze heavy and uncomfortable. ‘I know you don’t want to be here. And you aren’t daft, you can see I’m hardly thrilled myself, but here we are. Your gran, she’s a good woman. Loyal. And I owe her a real debt.’

Joseph felt himself bristle. He didn’t share her opinion of his gran.

‘She helped me, see. Many years ago now, but that’s irrelevant.’ Joseph saw Mrs F’s expression change, like she’d gone momentarily back to that time, but didn’t like what she saw.

‘Why? What did she do?’ His gran had done little for him. It had felt like she couldn’t wait to pack him off soon as the march of Dad’s shiny boots had stopped echoing in their ears.

‘That’s between me and her,’ Mrs F said uncomfortably. ‘And it’s certainly not something to be discussed this evening. Your gran wrote to me. Told me she was struggling to handle you, your behaviour. Your... moods.’

Joseph’s fists clenched at his sides. But Mrs F did not notice.

‘She asked me to have you for a spell. Just while your father is away.’

The anger in him grew. He didn’t like her mentioning his dad. And besides, she didn’t know anything. Doubted very much his gran had shared the important stuff with her.

‘Well, I don’t need you. I can look after myself.’ He had half a mind to collect his case and walk straight back to the station.

‘Not according to your gran, you can’t. According to her, you’re argumentative, aggressive and surly. You’ve been in more scrapes than she can keep up with, and she’s scared. Both for you and for her. That’s why she wanted me to help.’

Joseph thought about arguing with her, but realised she’d just see that as proving her point.

‘I made a promise to your gran,’ she went on, ‘that I’d keep you safe, as much as I can here anyway, and when I make a promise, I like to keep it. So my advice to you is, keep off my toes and I’ll keep off yours. We don’t have to like each other, we don’t even have to pretend, but until your dad comes home, I’m the best you’re going to get. Now, your room is at the top of the stairs on the right and your bed is made. That’s the last time I’ll do that for you, so make the most of it. Do you want anything to eat? I’ll be needing your ration book and identity card, though Lord knows if they’ll accept it down here. You’ll be registered to a shop up at home. Well? Do you have it?’ Her hand went out, awaiting payment.

He reached into his pocket for his crumpled book as she ranted on, not pausing to breathe, ‘If you are hungry, it’ll have to be something small, mind. I’ve not much in.’

The boy shook his head. The fire in his gut would only incinerate any food he swallowed anyway.

‘Then take yourself off to bed. We’ve work to do tomorrow. Me and you.

‘Oh, and if the siren sounds, get yourself dressed and down here quickly. No dallying, you don’t need to be presentable if Hitler knocks, just prompt.’

And without so much as a goodnight, she unlocked the back door and barrelled through it, leaving Joseph to stand there alone.