The Kingdom by the Sea. Robert Westall

eight,” said the man, pulling out a pocket watch. “Better be on me way up yonder.” He pointed to the Coastguard Station on the cliff. “Just thought Aah’d have a word wi’ you, seeing you was having so much fun wi’ your dog. Only,” he added, “you could do wi’ a pair of bathing-trunks, instead of bathing in yer underpants. We’ll have young girls down here, later on.” He glanced around. “A towel wouldn’t do you any harm, either.” Harry glanced at him, suddenly hunched-up, wary. But the man gave him a conspiratorial grin. “Aah didn’t tell me mam all Aah was doing when Aah was young either.” And he was gone, leaving only a fragrant whiff of his tobacco smoke.

       Chapter Four

      Three hours later, Harry lay back on the sand by the boat, closed his eyes, and let his mind stop whirling. What a terrible trip! He was never, never, never going up into the town again. Tommy Dodds had seen him, and Audrey Henry’s mother, and he’d only missed running into Cousin Elsie by diving up a back alley like a shot rabbit. He still wasn’t sure she hadn’t seen him. And the terrible wait in the bank, while the man counted out his money three times before he gave it to him, and he worried about Don tied to a lamp-post outside … when he’d got out, he took the bus straight back to Tynemouth. Thank God he’d had that threepence ha’penny, or he’d have had to give the conductor a ten-shilling note for the fare. And the conductor had still fussed about how sandy the dog was, and how it was making a mess of his bus … It had been stupid to go up into the town on a Saturday when everybody was out shopping. If he went on making stupid mistakes like that, he’d get caught for certain.

      But Tynemouth village had been better. Nobody knew him in Tynemouth. And he’d had a good shopping-spree, ten-shilling notes or no ten-shilling notes. There were still things to buy that were not on the rations. The pet-shop woman had been nice and friendly. Sold him a leash for the dog, and a steel curry-comb, and a big bag of dog biscuits. And some anti-flea soap, that would do for them both. She had pursed her lips over the note, but he’d said, “It’s me birthday present,” and she had told him he was a kind boy, spending all his birthday present on his dog. Then he’d gone to the butcher’s, and got some bones for the dog, and looked at the Cornish pasties so hungrily that the man had said, with a grin, “Do you want one? You can’t live on doggy-bones, a growing lad like you.”

      And lastly he had gone to the newsagents, and bought two boxes of matches, because he thought they were sure to come in useful, and the biggest newspaper he could see. Not that he cared a damn about the news, but certain movements in his tummy told him he was going to need a newspaper tonight after dark. God, life was all food going in one end, and out the other.

      But for the moment, he was content. Full of Cornish pasty, watching the dog chew at his big bone, and watching the girls go past in their bathing costumes through the pair of dark glasses he’d thought on to buy at the chemist’s.

      The chip-shop man saw him coming. Long before he got to the shop, Harry could see the bald head peering and bobbing maliciously above the heads of the customers. He had spent half of the day manufacturing lies for the chip-shop man. He tied up Don properly by his leash to the lamp-post, and pushed boldly into the shop.

      “Ha,” said the man nastily. “Here’s our little war hero, back for his nightly share of our fish and chips. I see you’ve managed to wash your face for once.”

      Harry joined the queue quietly, saying nothing. All the people in the shop were total strangers, so he knew he couldn’t look for any help there.

      “’E’s bombed out, you know,” said the man nastily. “Where you billeted then?”

      Harry was ready. “Priory Road.” It was the longest road in Tynemouth, and not very posh.

      “What number?” asked the man. Harry was ready for that, too.

      “Dunno,” he said, “but it’s about half-way down, on the right-hand side. Gotta green door and big white sea shells in the garden.” Half the houses in Priory Road had big white sea shells in the garden.

      “What’s the lady’s name – that you’re billeted on?”

      “It’s a funny long name – we just have to call her Auntie.”

      There was a titter in the queue. Harry felt they were turning on to his side. The woman at the front of the queue said sharply, “C’mon, Jim. I haven’t got all night to stand here, you know. Our Ted’s got to go back from leave.”

      The man gave Harry another nasty glare, but started shovelling chips again. Meanwhile, the other women in the queue began discussing which woman with a funny long name had a house in Priory Road, with a green door and sea shells in the front garden.

      “It’s not Peggy Molyneaux, is it? I hadn’t heard she had anybody billeted on her …”

      Harry was glad he’d picked the longest road in Tynemouth. But he knew with dreadful certainty that this was the last time he could use the chip shop. The gossip would be all over the village by tomorrow night. And what would he and Don do for food then? The woman asked him more questions about his landlady, and he almost ran out of answers, and sweated.

      But at last it was his turn.

      “Six sausage an’ chips, please.” He might as well grab what food he could.

      “Six?” yelled the man. “Are ye feeding a bloody regiment or something?”

      “The landlady wants some an’ all. An’ for her husband.” Harry’s lips quivered. He felt a traitorous tear gathering in his eye, and simply let himself cry. It had worked last night …

      “Leave the poor bairn alone, for God’s sake,” said a woman. “What’s he ever done to you, Jim?” And there was a murmur from the queue. Harry didn’t think anybody liked the man, really.

      But it was a marvellous relief to get out into the cool air of Front Street, with the packet burning against his chest. His tears dried up instantly, and he untied Don and walked down to the sea amazed at himself. His dad had always taught him never to lie, and that only babies cried. But tears and lies seemed to be all that worked now.

      In the night, the dog stirred against his side. Stirred and growled deep in its throat. Harry was awake in a flash. Was there someone prowling the dark beach? Somebody after Mam’s precious attaché case? He listened hard, and heard nothing. Then the dog growled again.

      And Harry heard.

      Vroomah, vroomah, vroomah. Out over the sea. The Jerry bombers were back. And there seemed to be a lot of them.

      Then, on the Castle cliffs overhead, the siren went.

      The dog whimpered, once, and then went mad, trying to scrabble its way out from under the boat, casting huge sheets of sand over the blankets, and into Harry’s eyes in the dark. His eyes were agony.

      But he knew he must stop the dog. Dogs went crazy in air raids. Ran about the streets howling, upsetting people. Ran blind, ran anywhere. Don could run off and get lost forever.

      He grabbed for Don’s collar, and felt around desperately for the leash, and got it on him, just as the dog wriggled out from under the boat. Harry let himself be dragged after him, bumping his head so he saw stars. There was nothing else he could do.

      Outside, it was as light as day. Three searchlights, three great bars of blue light reached outwards from the Castle into the sky above the sea, slowly waving and feeling like fingers for the approaching Jerries. More searchlights waved around from South Shields across the river. Little bits of mist or cloud drifted through the beams, like cigarette smoke. By their light, Harry could see every detail of the beach. And be seen. There’d be a warden round in a minute, yelling at him to get under cover. And the bombers were closer, and the guns would be opening fire overhead. Where to run to?

      But