3

Joseph prowled his room.

In the hours he had spent up there, he hadn’t bothered to try and sleep. There was no point. It was too cold, for starters.

The room was nothing but a small box, with an iron bedstead and an upturned orange box for a bedside table. To Joseph it felt like a coffin with the lid nailed down.

He didn’t want to be here: in this room, this house, this city, but like everything in life, it seemed he had no choice in how it played out. At the same time, deep in his gut, he knew he was to blame.

He did not like this woman. How dare she suggest Gran was decent or caring? She was neither of those things. If she were decent, he’d not be here. He’d still be at home, left to do as he pleased. It had suited him fine, the way things were, and if it bothered her? Well, it just showed her weakness. He paced harder, and heavier, the room shrinking with every step until he felt he could touch each wall merely by stretching out his arms.

He made for the window and wrenched open the curtains, hopeful that the sight of outside (as alien a landscape as it was), might make him feel less trapped. But there was nothing to see, quite literally, as every inch of the glass had been covered in blackout paint.

His shaking hands reached into his pockets and removed his penknife, but no matter how hard he scratched with the blunt blade, he couldn’t remove the daubed paint. It was sticky and thick, most likely a tar mixture rather than paint itself. All Joseph wanted was to carve a bullet hole into it, to prove there was life outside this prison and his own head, but even that wasn’t possible, and he felt himself beginning to lose control again.

He grabbed the bedside lamp, turning it, club-like, in his hand, throwing the shade to the floor. He didn’t feel the plug rip from the wall, the only thing he felt was the window yield to the club, shattering around it, then an overwhelming feeling of disappointment, when the street outside offered neither light nor any respite to his anxiety. The only things it did prompt were an icy blast of wind, the bark of a dog, and an angry voice telling him to Keep it down, there’s a war on out here!

Suddenly his bedroom door flew open, revealing the silhouette of Mrs F.

‘For the love of God,’ she spat in shock and disappointment, wrapping her dressing gown tightly round her to keep out the cold, before turning to walk down the stairs.

Joseph didn’t move.

Two minutes later she thundered back in, clutching a dustpan, brush, and piece of jagged plywood that she threw onto his bed.

‘You don’t honestly think I can get that replaced do you? I don’t have the money, for starters. And I doubt very much that I could find any glass that hasn’t already been broken by the Jerries. Anyway, you’ll pay for that to be replaced when the time comes,’ she said, pulling a hammer and nails from her dressing gown pocket, ‘but for now, you can fix it yourself.’

And that was that. No lecture, barely a tone to her voice. Instead, she backed out of the room without bothering to slam the door, leaving Joseph to pick up the hammer from the bed.

He looked at the window, had no desire to fix it just because she had told him to, but at the same time, he didn’t fancy dying of hypothermia. Besides, he could see it was an easy job. He knew how to work with tools, and the hammer felt good: heavy in his hand.

Minutes later, the plywood was tacked crudely to the window frame, much to the delight of the already irate neighbour.

And when he was done? Well, Joseph didn’t know what to do with himself, so he prowled some more, stewed some more, and cursed his luck repeatedly, until finally, his energy ran out. He sat on the floor, pulling the blanket on top of him, so he could ignore the bed Mrs F had made in one final, wilful protest.

His eyes opened to the most grotesque of sights: Mrs F, standing above him, arms folded, nostrils flared.

‘You’ve made a real pig’s ear of repairing that window,’ she sighed. ‘And as I said last night, you’ll be paying for it yourself. That, and any others you decide to break, so think on.’

Joseph didn’t move. It couldn’t possibly be morning. He’d only just closed his eyes, for Pete’s sake.

‘And what are you doing down there? Your rent doesn’t go up if you sleep in the bed, you know.’

Joseph pulled the scratchy woollen blanket right up to his chin, exposing his toes to the cold. He didn’t want her looking at him in his vest and pants.

The woman, annoyingly, seemed to read his mind.

‘I’d cover myself up too, if my underwear were the colour of yours. I suggest you bring your clothes down with you. If we get them scrubbed now and hung over the stove, they’ll be dry by the time we get home.’

‘Where are we going?’ Joseph mumbled.

‘I told you last night. Work. Paying for that mess.’ She pointed at the window. ‘Now, be down in five minutes. And don’t forget your laundry, otherwise you’ll be wearing out my stair carpet unnecessarily.’

Joseph dressed slowly. Not because there was anything better to do, just because he was damned if he was going to do what she told him.

He bundled up the rest of his clothes and carried them downstairs to the backroom, which smelled strongly of porridge. It was the first pleasant smell to invade Joseph’s nostrils since he’d arrived, waking his stomach with an impatient growl.

‘About time,’ Mrs F offered in way of a greeting. ‘You were lucky there was no air raid last night, or you really would be tired.’

Joseph had never experienced an air raid, but he’d heard reports about them on the wireless. About the mess and the smell and people sleeping in church halls because there was nothing left of their house. He’d heard about kids his age who thought it was all the most exciting adventure, roaming the streets trying to find shrapnel and bullets and helmets afterwards. Pathetic, he’d scoffed. Though there was one report on the news about a group of kids finding their own machine gun, sawing it clean off a crashed German bomber, and hiding it. That sort of adventure, he wouldn’t mind. Imagine that, he thought, having your own machine gun?

‘Come on, your porridge is on the table,’ Mrs F barked, without turning from the meagerly-lit stove. ‘There’s already a pinch of sugar in it so don’t be looking for any more. I suggest you fill your boots now, as there’ll be precious little else until supper.’

He had no interest in conversation. He was hungry. So he dropped his laundry at his feet and looked at the table. There were two steaming bowls on it, but one serving was much smaller than the other. Guessing this was his, he sat before it, only for Mrs F to switch the bowls round.

‘No, this one’s yours,’ she said, a slight flush to her face.

Joseph didn’t care. He pounced on it, almost forgetting to use the spoon at all.

Three mouthfuls in, he felt her eyes on him, frowning, of course. Was her face permanently fixed in that position, or was she saving it just for him?

‘What?’ he said.

‘When was the last time you ate?’

He shrugged. ‘Yesterday probably.’ Though he knew exactly when and what it was: an apple stolen off a stall before he got on the train. His grandmother had made him a sandwich, but he’d dumped it in the bin without her seeing. He didn’t want anything she’d made.

Anyway, he thought, he had porridge now. And although it didn’t have enough milk or sweetness to it, he didn’t care, and he fell on it again, ramming it into his mouth until his pupils dilated. He was careful not to let her see though – after all, the woman didn’t care about him. She was on his gran’s side. She’d made that only too clear.

‘You might as well have mine too,’ she said, spooning her porridge into his bowl.

‘What’s wrong with it?’ he spat through a full mouth.

‘Nothing. Not hungry, that’s all. When you’ve finished, you can get your hands in that bucket. There’s suds already in there, and a brush. Your clothes will think it’s their birthday.’

But Joseph had no idea how to go about getting clothes clean. And even when he tried (just to get her to leave him alone) she found fault in his every move.

‘Don’t be wringing it out like that, not till you’ve soaked it properly...

‘Keep the water in the bowl, not on my rug...

‘Can you not see that stain ther—’

‘If I’m doing such a lousy job,’ he finally snapped, sluicing water all over the floor, ‘wouldn’t it just be easier for you to do it yourself?’

But the woman didn’t step forward or change her expression. ‘No, it wouldn’t. It’d be a lot easier if you learned quickly how to listen and take orders. Now, once you’ve wrung them out properly, lay them flat on the rail by the stove. If they’re all bunched up, it’ll be Christmas before they’re ready to wear. And dry that floor up, too. We leave in fifteen minutes, so be ready. And be prepared to graft. We’ve a long day ahead.’

Joseph swore under his breath as she blustered from the room and up the stairs. Probably in search of her witch’s broomstick, he didn’t wonder.

He had no idea where they were going, but he knew one thing. The day had to get better, surely.