The Little Runaways. Cathy Sharp

the ticket. ‘Bit nippy out, ain’t it?’

      ‘Yes, very cold,’ Nan said, smiling at the understatement. ‘How is your wife getting on, Ned? Still got that nasty cough?’

      ‘She’s about the same, but she won’t go to the doctor’s,’ he said and winked. ‘Says a drop of brandy will set her straight and mebbe she’s right.’

      He moved off down the bus as it drew into the next stop and a man in a grey coat and black trilby got on. He was carrying a newspaper, some worn leather gloves, and a brown paper parcel tied up with string; he dropped the parcel as he reached the seat where Nan was sitting. The conductor retrieved it for him and he struggled to tip his hat to Nan, dropping his paper on the seat in the process. She moved along to give him room.

      ‘All right if I sit here, ma’am?’ She thought his accent sounded a bit northern but wasn’t sure, because it wasn’t pronounced.

      ‘Yes, of course. I’ve got four stops to go yet.’

      The man sat down and handed his fare to the conductor, then hunted for his newspaper. Nan wriggled it out from beneath him and he chuckled, his eyes sparkling with merriment. He must be in his early sixties, Nan thought, but attractive with it and clearly good-natured.

      ‘I should lose my head if it wasn’t stuck on,’ he confessed. ‘I always start off with half a dozen things and end up with most of them left on the bus or train.’

      ‘That must be awkward?’

      ‘They know me well at lost property,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I usually get everything back, though the newspaper doesn’t get handed in very often.’

      ‘I expect people think it has been abandoned and take it home.’

      ‘Very likely. I hope I haven’t forgotten anything important today. I’m delivering this parcel and I’d hate to lose it. It’s part of the job I started last week, see. Work is hard enough to come by for a man like me.’

      ‘Yes, that would be awkward,’ Nan said, and laughed. ‘My name is Nan. I work at St Saviour’s – it’s a home for children in need …’

      ‘Yes, I’ve heard of it,’ he said, and offered his gloved hand. ‘I believe it’s run by Sister Beatrice – a friend of mine says she’s a marvel.’

      ‘Yes, Beatrice is wonderful with children. She is strict, because she has to be, but underneath she loves them all, as I do.’

      ‘What do you do there? Are you a nurse too?’

      ‘No, I’ve never had any training, but I had a family – and I help to look after the children. I suppose I’m the head carer. I just pick up the pieces and look after anything that needs doing, for the children, but also for everyone else. I do whatever I can to help, you see – and sometimes that is just a matter of a little tea and sympathy.’

      ‘Ah yes, I’m a great believer in tea and sympathy,’ he said. ‘Army life depends on it, you know. I was with the medics during the first war, just an orderly, running around fetching stuff for the doctors, and sorting out the men’s problems in me spare time. This time round I helped out at a care home; a biscuit and little drink of tea in my room helped to break down their reserve sometimes. Poor young devils; they’ll suffer for that damned war for the rest of their lives.’

      ‘Are you still in the Army?’

      ‘No, they threw me out after the Armistice; too old, they tell me,’ he said, and his eyes twinkled again. ‘I am lucky enough to have found myself a little job delivering books to the college. I’ve been taken on by a professor at the University. Nice chap, doesn’t ask much. I fetch his shopping, mostly cakes for the teas he gives his students. Like I said, a cup of tea makes the world go round and I enjoy meeting the lads. Decent bunch but a little mad at times.’

      Nan laughed, because he was an old soldier, a bit like her Sam had been; he made her feel comfortable and she knew he must get on well with his employer and the students. He seemed an amiable, fatherly sort of man whom everyone could trust and rely on.

      ‘I expect they are just grateful that they didn’t have to fight that awful war.’

      ‘The lost generation,’ he said, and the smile left his eyes. ‘So many friends were killed in the Great War, though I came through it almost unscathed, but this time it was my friends’ sons … they deserted their education and their jobs to fight for King and Country and too many didn’t come back.’

      ‘Yes, it is so sad, but wars always are,’ Nan said. ‘Well, it was nice talking to you, but the next stop is mine.’

      ‘Ah, then I must let you escape.’ He got up, his parcel sliding to the floor. Nan squeezed out into the aisle and then picked up his parcel, handing it to him as he sat down. ‘Goodbye, Nan. I enjoyed our chat.’

      Nan smiled. He hadn’t told her his name but he probably didn’t realise that.

      ‘So did I,’ she said. ‘I hope you don’t lose anything …’

      He murmured something but Nan was moving down the bus ready to get off at the next stop. Something made her look back before she stepped down, and he lifted his hat to her.

      Nan smiled inwardly as she started the short walk to St Saviour’s. It was funny how often you met pleasant people on a bus and fell into conversation, yet you probably never saw them again. She wouldn’t mind travelling with the old soldier more often, but doubted if it would happen.

      One thing, he’d cheered her up. She no longer felt so distressed by that letter. After all, Maisie was old enough to know her own mind and she would have to decide for herself if the future she’d chosen was what she truly wanted.

       EIGHT

      ‘Are you sure you can part with them?’ Sally asked that Monday evening as she tried on the beautiful gown in Angela’s apartment. It was a delicious powder-blue satin with thin straps and a low back, and then there were two gorgeous fine wool dresses that were simple in design and suitable for an informal evening out or lunch at a nice hotel. This was the second time she’d tried on Angela’s clothes; she’d borrowed a smart grey dress when Andrew took her to the theatre the previous week. Sally had returned it nicely sponged and pressed, but now Angela had offered to give her these. ‘I’ve never worn anything like this, Angela. The material is wonderful and the styling – I only meant to borrow something now and then and I ought not to take them …’ She looked a little embarrassed.

      ‘I’m happy to know they will be useful to you,’ Angela said. ‘Honestly, Sally. I shall never wear them and I would much rather you had them than give them to the jumble sale.’

      ‘You’re so kind,’ Sally said, and slipped out of the gown, pulling on her own tweed skirt and pink and grey striped hand-knitted jumper. ‘If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you must let me know.’

      ‘I shall,’ Angela laughed, and poured more coffee for them both. ‘I’m arranging some fundraising events soon at the church and I’d like to enlist your help if you’re free.’

      ‘Of course. What are you thinking of doing next?’

      ‘Well, I’m considering putting on a concert of some sort. Some little sketches, a few songs, that sort of thing. We could involve the children and the staff and hold it at the church hall, sell tickets for a raffle and refreshments.’

      ‘I’d love to help. I could do a bit of sewing for the costumes or painting scenery,’ Sally offered. ‘I don’t think I’d be any good on the stage though.’

      Angela shook her head. ‘Some of the staff at St Saviour’s have lovely singing voices. I noticed it at the carol service. Father Joe helped with that, but I don’t suppose he would want to help with a concert …’

      ‘Not unless it was a religious one for