A Mother’s Hope

Martin slouched along the street with Don so close on his heels that the dog’s nose collided with his calves whenever he stopped to look in a shop window or to stand on the kerb, waiting to cross. He had been to collect his dole money for the third time since his visit to Southport, and was fighting a ridiculous urge to make his way to Everton Brow and the tower block in which Rose Pleavin lived. After all, he reminded himself, she had definitely taken to Don and had seemed to suggest that they might share responsibility for him. He knew of course that she could not seek him out, and chided himself for cowardice because he would not return to the flat for fear of a rebuff. He had promised Rose that he would wash his socks, which were more hole than wool, but instead he had gone straight from her flat to Paddy’s Market and spent the last of his precious money on two pairs, not new but not full of holes either. Now he felt that she would think him lazy and a spendthrift should she see the new socks.

Then, of course, he had gone along to the Labour Exchange, who had given him his dole but had not been able to help him find a job. However, by haunting the builders’ yards, he had actually got a couple of days’ labouring for a bricklayer whose usual workman had taken to his bed with an attack of flu. It was hard and heavy work but the extra money was welcome, though Martin knew better than to tell the Labour Exchange he had found a temporary job. He had done that once and had had no money at all for six terrible weeks, apart from his small earnings, which had ceased after a fortnight anyway. This job had been similar in that the bricklayer had employed him for a couple of days which had turned into the best part of a couple of weeks, but after that the usual labourer had come back to work. The brickie had paid up the money owing to Martin but it had been done grudgingly, which Martin thought unkind. He had performed every task put upon him while Don waited patiently outside the building site, even though the dog’s affection for Martin was such that he rarely wandered more than a couple of yards away from his master.

Of course, human nature being what it is, Martin had hoped that another labouring job on the site might come up. He dreamed of a permanent wage which would enable him to rent a room for himself and Don, for despite the fact that it was now mid-February the weather showed no sign of spring. In fact, heavy snowfalls had taken the place of the rain, blocking major roads and causing chaos even in the city. Naturally enough, the severe weather brought all building work to a halt, so Martin was not the only one unable to find a job.

Martin’s doorway was deep but he felt sorry for Don, who was too big to get into the sleeping bag and so curled up in the space between Martin and the door. He had proved his worth already, though, and Martin knew he had reason to be grateful to the big dog. A large man, probably a tramp, had tried to oust Martin from his sleeping place a couple of days after he and Don had got back to Liverpool, and as soon as the big dog realised that the man was trying to take Martin’s place his gentleness had fled. He had shouldered his way to the front of the doorway, his lips curling back to reveal a set of workmanlike teeth. His ears had flattened and his head had gone forward, whilst a blood-curling growl had issued from his open mouth. At the same time, a ridge of hair all along his back had risen up and Martin, who had heard the term ‘his hackles rose’ without understanding it, now saw exactly what it meant. Don was saying: ‘This is our place, and if you try to so much as put a foot over our threshold, I’ll have you!’

The tramp had read the message correctly, had said Don was a dangerous wild beast and should be put down, but had backed off. Don had stood in the doorway, growling beneath his breath, until he must have concluded that the tramp was no longer a threat. Then he had returned almost sheepishly to Martin’s side, licked his cheek and curled up. Martin had put his arms round the big dog’s neck and given him a hug. ‘Thanks, old feller,’ he had whispered. ‘I couldn’t have found a better pal than you if I’d searched the whole world over.’

The dog had licked his cheek again and Martin had tried to dispel the memory of a small freckled face fringed with untidy red hair. She was just a girl, not even a particularly nice one, who had seemed to offer him friendship and then snatched it away again. But when I have a home of my own and a proper job, I believe I’ll go back, he had told himself, snuggling down into the sleeping bag and pulling his feet up because the end of the bag was still damp from the previous night’s snow. After all, she is going to have a baby; I remember reading once that a woman what’s in the family way acts different from normal. Mebbe when the baby’s born she’ll realise that she needs a friend.

For the next couple of days he had got a job delivering newspapers – someone else, bless ’em, had gone down with the flu – but the job did not last. The rightful owner came back and Martin was once more wandering the cold streets and trying for any job that came up. Before meeting Don, Martin had had a vague idea that dogs lived on bones, but was soon disabused by a friendly butcher who had told him that he should buy dog biscuits and meat scraps. ‘Else the poor old chap’s teeth will fall out,’ he had assured his customer. ‘And you wouldn’t want that, eh? Greyhounds is grand dogs, loyal and loving. Here, I’ve some scraps of meat in the back – gi’ me a tanner and they’re yours.’

Martin had shelled out willingly but found himself wishing that he, too, could eat dog biscuits and scraps. The cold was beginning to tell on him; his feet never seemed to get warm and when he examined his toes by the light of his torch he was worried by the fact that the nails looked a very strange colour and his flesh did not respond when he tried to rub it into life. This was his first winter of sleeping rough and he thought, ruefully, that he could not have chosen a worse one. Several times he had found dead pigeons, their little frozen corpses pathetic signs of the extreme cold. He had taken one back to his doorway, plucked it and presented it to the dog. Don had given him a reproachful look, or so Martin had interpreted it, and had not eaten the offering.

Nights were bad, because Martin began to fear that the cold might take him in his sleep and he’d wake up dead, but days were almost worse. Before the dog had come into his life Martin, along with other unemployed men, had spent long hours in the Picton Library on William Brown Street, or in the museum next door, or the Walker Art Gallery. He had read books, newspapers and magazines, studied the museum exhibits and gazed with pleasure at the paintings. But now this was impossible, because no dogs were allowed inside any of the public buildings and Martin could not bear to leave his friend outside in the cold whilst he himself was warm.

It was much the same in cafés and restaurants. As a customer, he would have been welcome in most of the city’s many eating places, but as a dog owner he had been told brusquely to ‘leave the dog outside or find yourself somewhere else to eat’. Martin, the least aggressive of men, had almost had a stand-up fight with a café proprietor on Lime Street. He and Don had gone in and Martin had taken a seat in the darkest corner, pushing the dog under the table, if not out of sight at least out of everyone’s way. The waitress had approached, and Martin had opened his mouth to ask for a pot of tea and a round of toast when there had been a slight scuffling from beneath the next table and a Yorkshire terrier had shot out and begun to yap furiously. Its owner, a plump woman in her forties, with stiffly permed and bleached hair, had dragged on the little dog’s lead but had said, in a voice loud enough to almost drown out her dog’s yapping: ‘That’s all right, Sparky, my love, don’t you fret. Mr Huxtable will turn the horrid creature out, see if he don’t.’

Mrs Ponsonby had picked up her pet, trying to muffle its barks against her huge bosom, and pointed a trembling finger at Don, sitting quietly beneath Martin’s table and not so much as glancing at Sparky. ‘Oh, Mr Huxtable, my poor little man is terrified by that brute there,’ she had said. ‘Make that person take it away before it leaps on Sparky and crunches him up.’

Mrs Ponsonby and Mr Huxtable had both swelled with indignation and, upset though he was, Martin had had hard work not to smile. He thought they could both have modelled for Tweedledum and Tweedledee in the Alice stories, but had decided that his best move would be to order the pot of tea and the toast for which he had been longing. So he had smiled at the objectionable pair, smoothed his hand along the greyhound’s silky neck and said to the waitress, ‘A pot of tea for one and a round of buttered toast, please.’

Mr Huxtable had actually hesitated, looking uncertain, but Mrs Ponsonby had swung round on him, her bulging cheeks flaming beneath their layer of powder. ‘If you serve that – that wastrel, I’ll never come into this establishment again,’ she had hissed. ‘Take it or leave it.’

For a moment Martin had fought an urgent desire to give the fat little proprietor a good shove in his pot belly and see him reduced to the figure of fun he had thought him. Then he had sighed, shrugged and put a hand on Don’s head, rising to his feet as he did so. ‘C’mon, old feller. I reckon it’s one of them places where they toasts yesterday’s bread and spits in the tea,’ he had said loftily. ‘I’ll tell all me friends it’s run by a feller who knows no better than to insult his customers before refusing to serve them.’

Mr Huxtable had begun to bluster, Mrs Ponsonby had used regrettable language and, as Martin and Don had stalked past, the Yorkshire terrier had leaned out of his mistress’s arms and grabbed Don’s ear. Martin, roused to fury by the uncalled-for attack, had seized the little dog by the bow on top of its head and had slapped it resoundingly, whereupon Sparky had released his grip on Don’s ear, leaving half a dozen bleeding tooth marks, and tried to attack Martin.

The waitress, an interested observer, had snatched up a scone from the serving hatch and pressed it into Martin’s hand. ‘Don’t take no notice of old Mrs P. You go along to Lily’s Tea Rooms on London Road,’ she had whispered. ‘She’s me auntie and she don’t charge half of what old Huxtable does. Tell her as how Nellie sent you and she’ll let the dog in an’ all.’ Aloud, she had said: ‘Sorry about the fuss, mister, but Mrs Ponsonby is a regular, and what with the snow an’ all . . .’

Martin had muttered that he quite understood and had left, but the nasty little incident had been a reminder of his vulnerability. If someone reported him to the police, then it could only be a matter of time before they discovered that he was sleeping rough and took some action, perhaps forcing him to take a place in one of the lodging houses down by the docks. Worst of all, they would take Don away from him. He really must be more careful.

So now, because he could not visit such places as libraries and museums with Don, he walked miles, because at least walking was warmer work than merely hanging about outside the big stores to get what shelter he could from the wind and snow, and to enjoy, whenever the doors opened, a gust of warm air from within. He told himself constantly that March, when it came, would bring the first breath of spring. But this was hard to believe when the snow was piled up on the pavements in little-used side streets and the lake in Prince’s Park was frozen solid.

He often pictured Rose, holed up in her warm little flat at the top of the tower block, but his image of her was becoming increasingly blurred. He sometimes thought, ruefully, that he had left it too long to go calling on her; she would wonder why he had not come before. He reminded himself that she had seemed to love Don as much as he did. By now she might be thinking he had deliberately avoided her in order to keep the dog to himself. The thought was a dismaying one and he decided, not for the first time, that as soon as he got a job . . .

That evening Martin was feeling almost cheerful, despite the fact that it had started snowing again. After collecting his dole money he had decided to splash out on some fish and chips. The proprietor’s wife at the nearest chippy had taken a liking to Don and usually saved him what looked to Martin like a disgusting mess of fish bits, which she doused generously in batter and fried up whenever she saw Martin and his dog in the queue. Martin thought her a lovely lady, though her sandy hair, little pale blue eyes and large turned-up nose gave her a close resemblance to a pig. The impression was not helped by the bright pink overall she always wore, or by the fact that she snorted rather than laughed when amused. But she was kind and must have guessed that he was sleeping rough, for whenever he bought fish and chips, which he did now at least twice a week, she always handed him, along with the food, a pile of newspapers. Newsprint was excellent insulation and Martin was grateful both for Don’s scraps and for the tactfulness with which she handed over his bedding.

So now, mouths watering with anticipation, Martin and Don joined the queue and presently left the shop, Martin clutching the beautiful hot parcels to his chest beneath his duffel coat and Don raising worshipful eyes to his master’s face. Martin made straight for the builder’s yard, hauled out his sleeping bag from its hiding place behind the pile of bricks, and draped it round his neck. Then he and Don hurried to the doorway which had been home to them since leaving the tower block. Martin made his arrangements, piling up the new newspapers and fishing the old ones out from the bottom of his sleeping bag, where he put them when he removed every trace of his occupancy before daylight each morning. He was pretty sure that Mr Seddon, who owned the shop, knew that Martin was his uninvited guest each night, but turned a blind eye. Perhaps Mr Seddon had known hard times, understood Martin’s desperation, but whatever the reason his doorway was a life-saver and he had become one of the people to whom Martin felt he owed a great debt.

Having spread out his newspapers, checked the direction of the wind – it was blowing away from the doorway – and inserting himself into the sleeping bag, Martin unwrapped Don’s fish pieces and laid them out before him. ‘Would you like ’em salt and vinegared, sir?’ he said, in a squeaky falsetto. ‘Ketchup is tuppence extra; d’you fancy ketchup?’

Don gave him an indulgent glance; it was clear that neither salt and vinegar nor ketchup appealed, but the big dog always waited for Martin to unwrap his own food before he himself started to eat. Very soon both were giving satisfied but regretful sighs and Martin was scrumpling up the outer wrappings and settling back. ‘Weren’t that just grand, old feller? And now I believe I could nod off, ’cos I’m full of good food and me sleepin’ bag is only slightly damp on the outside.’

With some reluctance, he took off his trusty duffel coat and the thickest of his three ragged jerseys. Then he slid out of his spare pair of socks, which he wore during the daytime both for extra warmth and because that way he was unlikely to lose them. He pushed the clothing to the very end of the sleeping bag – extra insulation – and stood his precious boots against the shop door, where no thieves were likely to come upon them. Then he cuddled down, using Don as a pillow.

Sometimes Martin lay for ages, shivering with the cold and wondering what would become of him if the severe weather did not lift soon, but tonight he slept deeply and was almost startled out of his life when he became aware of a bright and dazzling light focused on his face and a booming voice, almost in his ear. He hitched himself on to one elbow and peered in the direction of the light, conscious that Don was beginning to bristle. He looped a restraining arm round the strong, grey neck. ‘Whazza marrer?’ he said thickly. ‘We ain’t doin’ no one no harm, me and me dog.’

He had screwed up his eyes against the bright light but now he glared at the intruder and was astonished when the man uttered a startled oath, which was followed by a crash as he dropped his torch. ‘Bloody ’ell!’ the hoarse voice remarked. ‘What the devil is you? You’d best come out of that . . . unless you’re a two-headed monster or a vampire, of course, in which case you can stay where you are whiles I fetches a stake to drive through your heart.’

‘I dunno what you mean,’ Martin said; then, as he scrambled to his feet, he chuckled. ‘Oh, I see. You saw me dog’s eyes as well as mine, and of course mine must look rare strange by torchlight. Come to that,’ he added truthfully, ‘I reckon they’re pretty odd by daylight, but we’re neither of us doing any harm, honest to God we’re not.’

‘I dare say,’ the man said. ‘But you aren’t doing yourself much good either, lad. Why aren’t you in a hostel, or in your own home, come to that? It’s only just stopped snowing and from the look of the clouds it’ll start again any minute. Now come along with me and I’ll get you a bed for the rest of the night, even if it’s only an empty cell at the station.’

The man bent and picked up his torch and pointed it at himself. It illumined his helmet and a round and rosy face, confirming that he was a policeman. ‘Thank the lord my torch isn’t broken or I’d have had to pay for a replacement,’ he said. ‘Put your shoes on, lad, and pick up your belongings. Then we’ll be on our way. I’ll see you comfortably settled with a nice hot cup of tea and a couple of good thick blankets, and tomorrow morning we’ll talk about your future. I guess you haven’t got a job or you wouldn’t be sleeping rough. How old are you, by the way? You can give me the rest of your details when we reach the nick.’

‘There’s dog pounds and kennels and that; he’ll be all right,’ the policeman said vaguely. ‘Hurry up with your boots; I’m beginning to feel cold even if you aren’t.’ He looked up at the sky and heaved a sigh. ‘There, I told you, it’s starting to snow again. Will you get a move on, young feller!’

He bent as he spoke, clearly intending to pull the sleeping bag out of the doorway, and Martin seized his chance. He shot past the man’s bulky figure, knocking him as he passed and sending him sprawling, and began to run down the street. His feet skidded and slipped on the frozen pavement, but he scarcely noticed, though it did occur to him that he had not had time to lace his boots and he must not spoil everything by coming a cropper. As soon as they reached a side street, Martin and Don swerved into it, and after dodging into every little alley they saw Martin slowed and looked behind him. There was no sign of the policeman, who must have guessed that he was unlikely to catch the two fugitives, but Martin realised that he was now in a desperate situation indeed. His sleeping bag and his collection of newspapers had been left behind, along with his coat, thick jersey and spare socks. What was even worse was that the doorway was lost to him, for he could not possibly go back. He had no doubt that it would be watched, and though the scuffer had seemed a kindly man and would probably take his sleeping bag back to the police station, he would leave the newspapers where they were. Mr Seddon would not be pleased to find them there, especially since he would also find the greasy chip wrappings which Martin would normally have disposed of in the dustbin at the back of the builder’s yard.

He had no idea of the time and even less idea of where he was, for so constantly had he changed direction that he was now completely lost. His situation was not helped by the fact that it was beginning to snow quite heavily. For a moment, tears pricked in the corners of his eyes and he actually considered giving himself up to the law and taking whatever punishment would await him for sending the scuffer flying as he and Don had made their escape. He had not meant to do it, but who would believe him? Then he looked down at Don and knew that he could not hand himself in. He was determined that he and the big dog should not be parted, yet unless he found shelter he knew they would not survive for long. He supposed that he might be able to persuade the lady in the chip shop to look after the dog for a few days, but that would mean returning to the area he had just left.

He was beginning to shiver and looked round desperately for some sort of shelter. There were plenty of houses around, but none of them had so much as a porch in which he and the dog could take refuge. Telling himself to stop panicking, he examined his surroundings carefully. He had somehow managed to take only turnings which led uphill and suddenly he thought of the tower blocks up on Everton Brow. He was pretty sure that if he kept on climbing he would see the blocks and could make for them, and though he could not possibly expect Rose to answer the door to him in the middle of the night, at least he could lie down somewhere in the foyer of her building until daylight. It would not be warm but at least he would be out of the snow, which was already beginning to penetrate his thin clothing. And when it was daylight, he would explain his situation to Rose and ask her to take care of Don whilst he returned to the police station and faced the music.

Rose woke. She had cramp in one foot and a desperate need to pee, but even as she sighed to herself and began to shrug off the covers she thought that it was not just the cramp or the urge for the lavvy that had woken her. There had been a sound – not a particularly loud or aggressive one – that was unusual enough to bring her back to consciousness. So she sat up on one elbow and listened hard . . . and there it was again, a sort of skittering, scratching noise.

Rats! Rose gave a shudder, then scolded herself. So far as she knew there had been no talk of rats in the block; she herself had never even seen a mouse. Besides, she had personally left the door to the foyer a little open when she had come in from a shopping expedition that evening because she knew that the feral cats which lived on the scraps she and some of the other tenants put out would be glad of the shelter. Those cats would not allow mice – or rats – to take up residence in a block where they were fed.

Comforted, she swung her feet out of bed and reached for her torch, thinking smugly how fortunate she was to have her own bathroom and lavatory. Of course the home had had such things, but she knew that many private houses did not. She had visited friends from school who had to use a chamber pot by night or a privy in their back yard by day.

She never closed her bedroom door now because when she needed to go she wanted to do so immediately. She left the bathroom door open too, which gave her a clear run. She had told Mrs Ellis rather shyly about this sudden change and the older woman had said that it was the result of the baby pressing against her bladder, so Rose had stopped worrying. She had just finished and was about to pull the chain when she heard a snuffling sort of sound, as though someone – or something – was breathing so close to her front door that it must have been that which had woken her.

Under normal circumstances Rose was far too afraid of her neighbours to open the door at night; indeed, she hesitated to do so during the day without first demanding the credentials of whoever had knocked, but for some reason she went straight to the door and began to unbolt it. Then she opened it a crack and peered through. There was someone lying directly outside her door, but before she could wonder who it was she heard a shrill whine and there was Don, grinning at her and wagging his tail.

Rose’s heart bounded; they had come back! She flung the door wide, then bent down and shook Martin’s shoulder. He was shivering violently, his clothing wet, and to her dismay she saw that he was not wearing a coat or any other outer garment. ‘Martin, come inside at once! You must be mad to come out in this weather without so much as a coat,’ she said. ‘What’s happened? Had a row with your landlord? I thought you might be at the YMCA, but they said not. But never mind that, you can tell me presently. Come on in and I’ll light the stove.’

Martin muttered something and tried to get to his feet. Rose attempted to help him but he was too heavy for her and in the end he crawled across her little hall before collapsing in the kitchen. Rose was frightened but lit the oven, leaving the door open to warm the room. Then she half filled the kettle and set it on the stove, telling Martin brusquely that he must get out of his wet clothes as quickly as possible. She hurried into the bathroom, grabbed a towel and then hesitated. Turning back, she put the plug in the bath and turned the hot tap on full. She remembered reading somewhere that the best way to treat an ice-cold body was to immerse it in warm water, so instead of taking the towel to Martin she hung it on the rail and then returned to her uninvited guest. He had stripped down to his trousers and was looking a little better, though still white as a ghost – but when was he not? – and exhausted.

‘I’ve run you a bath. You best gerrin it and warm up, and when you’re feelin’ more like yourself the kettle will have boiled and you can tell me what’s been happening over a nice cuppa,’ she said. ‘Honest to God, I seem to spend half me time rescuin’ you and old Don here from the weather! Remember last time?’

Martin shambled across the hall and disappeared into the bathroom and Rose turned back into the kitchen and began to make porridge. Don had laid himself down in front of the open oven door, but when she fetched an old blanket from her bedroom he curled up on it without complaint and she realised that he was in much better condition than he had been the last time she had seen him. So Martin’s been feeding him and probably half starving himself, she thought and felt a stab of guilt because she had not guessed that Martin had needed help even more than Don. Then she scolded herself for stupidity; he had walked out on her, not the other way around. He had gone without a proper farewell, taking the dog, which she had thought they would share, with him.

She had meant to search the city centre, to ask folk in shops whether they had seen a tall, skinny, rather odd-looking boy accompanied by a large greyhound, but apart from a visit to the nearest YMCA she had always been too busy. As the weeks passed, of course, she had become so involved with the intricacies of childbirth, getting books out of the library, comparing notes with other mothers-to-be or young women who had already given birth and were eager to talk babies with anyone who would listen, that she had pushed Martin and Don to the back of her mind. She had told herself that they would turn up one day and had never dreamed for one moment that they needed her. If they did, why on earth had they not come calling before?

The porridge was steaming in the bowls and Don was licking out the saucepan when Martin shuffled into the kitchen. She saw with approval that he had wrapped himself in the blanket which she had hung on the outside of the bathroom door and put her old carpet slippers upon his feet, and was relieved when he grinned at her. ‘Sorry to barge in on you, Rosie,’ he said. She could tell he was trying to sound humble, though it didn’t quite come off. ‘But we was desperate, me and the old feller here.’ He glanced around the room, then pointed. ‘You’ve gorra second chair!’

The story did not take long to tell but it appalled Rose. ‘You’re a fool, Mart,’ she said roundly. ‘If only I’d knowed what were happenin’ to you . . . well, you could be sure I’d have done something to help. But you haven’t said why you went off like that, nor why you didn’t come back.’

‘I thought you didn’t want me around when you wouldn’t let me buy a woolly ball for the baby,’ Martin said, looking shamefaced. ‘I’d made up me mind that I’d come back and see you just as soon as I had a proper job and somewhere to live. Part of the trouble has been old Don here. He’s the best pal a feller could have but folk what let cheap lodgings won’t take dogs, especially big ones. Even places like the Picton Library won’t let a dog inside the doors. Though in fact Don saved my bacon more’n once when I were sleepin’ in Mr Seddon’s doorway. It’s a grand, deep doorway, well out of the wind and snow, so if it hadn’t been for Don seeing off tramps and that I’d soon have been turned out. But of course a scuffer is different. I don’t deny old Don bristled up and muttered beneath his breath, but he never growled or showed his teeth like he done when tramps or other down-and-outs tried to take our place.’ He looked at Rose from under his lashes. ‘And it was me that knocked against him and sent him sprawling, though it was an accident,’ he said. ‘But once the scuffers know where you’re kipping down, you can’t ever go back. It don’t matter who’s on that particular beat, the scuffer on duty will check Mr Seddon’s doorway every hour or so. In fact it’s a perishin’ miracle that I weren’t picked up weeks ago.’

‘I know there’s been a lot of this flu you mentioned amongst the police force, so scuffers have been pretty thin on the ground, and if the doorway was as deep as you say they simply mayn’t have noticed you,’ Rose observed. ‘Particularly when you think that it’s snowed heavily most nights for – oh, for ages. What’s more, a lot of scuffers are happy enough to let a tramp lie warm and dry rather than having to find him a bed which the feller won’t want anyway.’ She grinned at him. ‘So mebbe your luck was in. Only personally, if I were you, I’d rather sleep on me sitting room floor than the deepest doorway in Liverpool.’

Rose laughed. She, who so liked her own company, realised with surprise that she was enjoying entertaining both Martin and the dog. Indeed, she knew that with the half of her mind not engaged in listening to Martin’s story she had been planning a quick dash to the shops, where she would buy dog biscuits and any meat scraps a butcher would sell her cheap. ‘Thanks for the suggestion, but I think I prefer to have it thoroughly rinsed out,’ she said. ‘Dog lick is awful sticky. And now we’d best make plans, Martin, ’cos I don’t mean to let you out of this place until you swear on the Holy Bible that you won’t run away again.’

Martin began to agree but his words were cut off by an enormous, jaw-cracking yawn and Rose realised that he was in no condition to think logically. ‘Sorry, Mart. I’m pretty tired myself, but you must be absolutely shattered. The sitting room isn’t as warm as the kitchen but I reckon the sofa’s softer than the kitchen floor. I’ll fetch an old cushion and you and Don will probably be asleep before I shut the door. I’ll give you a shout in the morning – your clothes ought to be dry by then – and we’ll talk about what to do next. Is that all right by you?’

Rose had thought that she would sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow, but this did not prove to be the case. As soon as she closed her eyes, a picture of Mrs Ellis appeared behind her eyelids, wagging a reproving finger. Then others joined her: teachers from school as well as Miss Haverstock and some of the old people, to say nothing of various neighbours in the tower block. They were all pointing at her and she could read disgust and disapproval in their narrowed eyes. She knew at once what they meant. Nice girls, decent girls, did not invite young men into their homes. Of course it was nobody’s business but hers, really; she could say to neighbours and others that Martin was the father and they were going to marry, but Mrs Ellis at least would not be taken in.

If I let Martin stay in my flat, then Mrs Ellis will get me evicted, Rose told herself gloomily. She will say that we made a bargain and Mart was no part of it. The neighbours don’t matter because I don’t believe she knows any of them. But word gets around and the last thing on earth I want to do is marry Martin. He’s nice all right, but . . . oh, weird! Imagine waking up one morning to find a pair of strange reddish eyes glaring at you from the pillow next to your head. And there’s more to marriage than glaring eyes; there’s all that grabbing and prodding . . . I don’t ever mean to go through that again. Not with anyone, least of all someone who ought to be in a perishin’ circus!

However, she did not think she could bear to see Martin return to his life on the streets. If only she could find him a job! She knew, of course, and guessed that he knew also, that his appearance was against him. People in shops and offices thought his strangeness would affect their business, whilst other jobs needed more physical strength than employers thought he possessed. He looked weak, being so long and thin and pale, though in fact he was strong enough.

So if she could not invite Martin to stay, what could she do for him? She could offer to take Don off his hands, but that could only be during daylight hours. At night Martin needed the dog’s protection, and anyway, she doubted that Don would willingly stay with her in the flat whilst Martin scoured the streets for work. If only Martin was not so weird-looking! She thought he had grown a good deal weirder since they had last met. His white hair was shaggy and unkempt, as well as far too long, and what clothing he had was almost in rags and sadly in need of a wash. His nails were grimy and broken off short and though he had told her that he had eaten at least one good meal a day she thought that he must have exaggerated, for he was horribly skinny, the bones of his elbows and shoulders far too prominent.

Desperately, Rose turned the problem over and over in her mind. If he could only find work, then she could go with him to buy sensible warm clothing. She had her small savings but guessed he would not take her money, though if she could persuade him that decently clad he was far more employable he might at least borrow from her.

Martin awoke, feeling so strange that for a moment he thought himself a boy again, back in the sick bay at the Arbuthnot Boys’ Home, for he was burning hot and aching all over. Then he glanced around him and knew at once that he was in Rose’s sitting room, curled up on her sofa with Don’s head resting across his ankles. The light outside showed that morning had come, for neither he nor Rose had thought to draw the curtains across.

He sat up on one elbow and listened: no sound. Gently, he disengaged his ankles from Don’s weight and stood up. To his horror, the room whirled around him and the floor came up to meet him. He fell to his knees on the linoleum feeling weak and odd, telling himself that this was no time to come over all queer. He must pull himself together or . . . or . . .

He sat down on the sofa again. He had felt like this once before, long ago. He had not known it at the time but he had been sickening for measles and could still remember how dreadful he had felt for the first two or three days. His sight, never good, had become very much worse and Matron had ended up by taking him to someone she described as ‘a special eye doctor’, who had provided him with spectacles.

Sitting on the sofa, he pulled up the sleeve of his ragged shirt, his heart thumping hard. Could one get measles twice? He supposed it must be possible, but his arm was as pale as ever, with no sign of a spot. Well, if it wasn’t measles, he was probably quite all right, and was just feeling hot because he was no longer used to indoor living. Very, very cautiously he stood up. Immediately, the giddy sensation attacked him once more, but this time he remained standing. He had intended to go through into the kitchen to make Rose a cup of tea and some toast, and now he told himself that since he appeared not to have measles, he might safely do this. He remembered that Matron had told him he must not infect other children, so he would not have dreamed of taking Rose so much as a drink of water had he found any sign of spots.

Standing, swaying a little, he began to shiver, which was absurd because he was burning hot. Hastily, he reached for his clothing but had to sit down on the sofa again before he could even begin to dress. Once clad, he pushed his bare feet into the old carpet slippers – he dared not bend to put on his socks for as soon as he tried to do so giddiness swept over him once again – and shuffled along to the bathroom to relieve himself. Remembering the hygiene rules instilled into him at the Arbuthnot, he washed his hands and dried them on the towel he had used the previous evening before setting off for the kitchen. He glanced towards Rose’s bedroom as he crossed the hall and was surprised and rather gratified to see that the door had been left wide open. Clearly, she trusted him, and did not fear that he might spy on her whilst she slept.

Reaching the kitchen, he picked up the kettle and was surprised at how heavy it felt. He lifted the lid and saw it was half full, so he stood it on the stove and turned on the heat. Even that slight exertion set his heart banging once more, so he decided against trying to make toast and contented himself with pouring tea and milk into two mugs. He left his own on the kitchen table and set off to take Rose hers. Halfway across the hall, he realised that he was still shaking, which probably meant that he was also spilling. Sure enough, when he looked over his shoulder, he saw a trail of tea in his wake. He stopped, dismayed, then smiled as Don, following him, began to lick up the tea with great enthusiasm. Good old Don. Rose would never know how clumsy he had been.

Reaching her doorway, he tapped, and when he heard a sleepy mumble he entered the room. He went over to the bed, trying not to stare as she sat up groggily, and set the mug down on the bedside cabinet, saying: ‘I made you some tea, Rosie. I meant to make toast but I couldn’t see the loaf and it seemed a bit cheeky to go ferretin’ through your cupboards.’