The Orphan Thief. Glynis Peters

building into freezing air. She’d placed the torch in the lower part of the room, finding its shadow and glow a comfort. Grateful for the two greatcoats she found hanging on the back of a door hanging by one hinge, she pulled one of them on. It wasn’t too large around the body, nor too long. The second she placed on the bed. No longer hungry, just exhausted, Ruby climbed onto the bed and gave in to sleep.

       CHAPTER 3

      17th November 1940

      ‘Next.’

       Boom!

      ‘Next.’

       Crash!

      Ruby, startled awake by loud male voices and explosions too close for comfort, rubbed her eyes and scrambled from her bed. She tried to peer from a smashed window to the front of the house, but saw nothing. She picked her way outside, but again saw nothing. Only distant noises filled the air and, satisfied it was a dream which had woken her, she gave in to nature as it begged her to heed its call. She snatched up a bucket from the yard and took it inside. Once relieved, she emptied the contents in the back far corner of the garden and covered it with soil. As she walked back through the garden, she spotted movement a few doors down, then came another explosion and, to her horror, the building collapsed to the ground. Ruby stood stock-still, her heart catching in her throat. She wanted to run or crouch, but her legs wouldn’t move.

      Was the enemy bombing nearby? The thought threaded fear throughout her body. She tried to take a step.

       Boom. Crash.

      They were getting closer and, if captured, Ruby dared not to imagine the consequences.

      She weighed up the time left for her to gather up Fred’s personal effects and leave before they reached the end of the row. She used the blanket she’d found and pulled several items into it, including two tins of Spam and a cabbage from the garden. She tied it with a length of rope, hoisted it onto her hip and moved to the front of the building.

      ‘Halt!’

      Without waiting to find out if the instruction was for her or the men in uniform she’d spotted near a truck at the front of the property, Ruby moved quickly, her mind settling on the best place to hide. She’d return to Radford Common. Escaping the enemy was a priority. She’d heard the adults discuss what would happen to young women if captured. Whispers of rape and abuse amongst the parishioners of their local church one Sunday remained with her. More than once she’d heard her mother whisper her fears for Ruby to a customer or two. The dread of those overheard conversations spurred Ruby on now, her legs bruised with the baggage she carried. Her hip, sore from the metal saucepans and precious colander, hindered the speed she travelled, but she was determined not to stop.

      Once satisfied she had enough distance between her and the explosions, she looked about for someone to report the presence of the enemy, but all she saw were miles of shell-shocked people leaving the city.

      Her weighty load forced her to stop halfway, and she took in her surroundings. Bombed car factories. Bewildered people. Smells which made her gag, some which made her mouth water; whichever way she turned there was something new to scare her, amaze her or turn her stomach.

      Across the road, she heard another team of men shouting instructions to one another. They were clearing the building they stood next to and, as the bricks tumbled to the floor, Ruby felt a bubble of hysterical laughter brew inside her belly. Sudden realisation released the pent-up fear she carried. The men she’d fled weren’t the enemy; they were British soldiers and workmen clearing the unsafe buildings. A sadness hit her hard and the pending hysterical laugher was soon suppressed. With the men clearing unsafe properties, it meant Fred’s house would match that of her grandmother’s, and Ruby recognised the fact she’d been rendered homeless once more. There was no turning back, and she made a decision to find the den she’d slept in after the bombing and trudged on towards the greensward.

      Along the way she spotted many useful items flung far and wide from destroyed properties, and Ruby debated whether to collect some before dark fell; she also pondered whether it would be stealing from the dead – something she’d never dream of doing during peacetime.

      Another gnawing bout of hunger reminded her of other important issues and she sat, thinking about her future. As the daughter of a greengrocer, she’d never had to consider purchasing food. Her mother was a good seamstress, and clothing had never been short for the family either. Circumstances for Ruby had not simply changed, they’d become life-altering. She needed paper and pencil to make a list of items required. For a faltering moment she considered registering herself homeless – family-less – an orphan. Orphan. A word she refused to recognise. She still had parents; they simply watched over her, not in the flesh but in her mind.

      ‘Did you see the King yesterday?’ Two women stood chatting nearby and they gave Ruby a fleeting glance as she crawled out from under the hedge.

      ‘He cried. Cried for us,’ one woman said.

      Ruby brushed herself down and walked away. A crying King? Never. Some people exaggerated their stories. King George was a strong man, the head of the country. He’d never cry in the street in front of strangers.

      A twist of disappointment niggled at her failure to have seen their sovereign visit the city, until Ruby decided he’d have nothing but words to offer her.

      Everywhere she looked, queues zigzagged their way from one building to another. White, grey, soot-black and puce faces of worn-out Coventarians, who barely moved. The world worked around them. A loneliness sat heavy on her shoulders and she dropped to her knees, weakened by the senseless crime committed against her and her family – her city – and Ruby remained on the floor, organising her mind, her warrior instinct weakened by a heart-breaking sadness. She fought the idea of ending her own life, of leaving town to gain a better one, of joining others for nothing but company, but she couldn’t bear the thought of people pitying her, and talking about her family no longer being alive. She tussled with so many emotions on the cold ground until she accepted she needed help, and resigned herself to registering herself in need. Uniformed men and women busied about the devastated areas. No one acknowledged her; she wasn’t an unusual sight. Ruby had witnessed many like herself, tired, uninjured and in mourning. An everyday event for a city torn to shreds. Time and energy were spent upon retrieving and repairing. There was no time for pity.

      Rising to her feet, Ruby recalled her father’s best friend, Stephen Peabody. He’d definitely help her, and he lived nearby. She needed to tell him he’d lost his friend.

      It saddened her to see history brought to its knees. The sight of the cathedral, now a shadow of itself, and trams twisted as if crumpled paper, protruding at all angles, upset her and as she clambered over the dark beams of what had once been a beautiful mediaeval street Ruby gritted her teeth and fought back, yet again, the nagging temptation of giving up the fight. It all seemed so pointless.

      Upon reaching a building tucked away in Spon Street, she noticed the sign above the front window, S Peabody, Accountant, swinging on one nail. She peered through a small, intact pane of glass, amazed the building had escaped ruination by the bombs. Inside, a man bent over a desk; his head leaned on the surface, supported by his brow. A sleeping Stephen Peabody at his desk was not an uncommon sight. He often worked into the late hours.

      Ruby tapped on the window. He didn’t move, so she banged harder. Nothing. Walking around the side of the property, she turned the handle of the outer door and it opened. She let herself inside and rushed to his side. His hands were blue-grey and as she touched his cheek she felt there was no warmth, no breath moving his chest. She sighed. Dead. Her father’s friend, a man who had visited their home on many occasions, had joined the list of Coventry’s dead. Would this nightmare never end?

      Ruby contemplated her responsibility towards Stephen. He was an unmarried man and, as far as she was aware, his last living relative was a sister he’d argued with when their parents had died, and who now lived in Scotland. Pulling the curtains closed, Ruby slipped