Tuppence To Spend (51 page)

‘Let’s go now, then,’ Dan said, getting up. ‘I can’t eat any more – begging your pardon, Mrs Mudge, but I don’t seem to have no appetite.’

As they were pulling on their coats, the kitchen door opened and Ruth Purslow came in. Her face was white, her eyes shadowed as if she too had been awake all night. She looked at the two men and crossed to Dan’s side, gazing up at his face.

‘I had to come. I can’t just stand by and do nothing.’

‘Of course not, Ruth.’ The vicar gave her arm a comforting pat. ‘We’re just going to see Constable Percy. He may have some news.’

To their surprise the local policeman did indeed have news. He had written it down as it came to him over the telephone and he read it out to them in a slow, careful voice.

‘The Portsmouth police have already been to check up at the local railway stations and it seems that a lad answering Sammy’s description bought a ticket on Monday morning. He’d missed the train but he was told another one would be along in twenty minutes. However, when the train arrived he was no longer on the platform.’ Constable Percy lowered
the sheet of paper and looked at them. ‘It seems he either changed his mind or got on the wrong train.’

Ruth stared at him in dismay. ‘The wrong train! But where would he have gone?’

‘Well.’ Constable Percy consulted his paper again. ‘It seems that before the Bridge End train came in – that’s the slow, stopping train of course – there was one to Brighton. And another one to Waterloo. He could have got on either of those.’

‘Waterloo? But that’s in
London
!’ Ruth whispered, appalled. ‘Oh, poor little Sammy! All by himself in London. He’ll be frightened out of his wits.’

‘We don’t know that he went there,’ the vicar pointed out. ‘He could have got on the Brighton train.’

‘But even if he did – what would he do once he got there? How would he manage?’

‘Well, he’s a sensible boy,’ Mr Beckett said. ‘He’d ask a policeman, wouldn’t he? We always tell the village children that if they’re lost or in any sort of trouble they should go to the nearest police station.’

Dan shook his head. ‘My Sammy wouldn’t do that. He’s scared of coppers. Ever since our Gordon was sent away …’ He sighed. ‘It’s my fault. I never give a thought to bringing them boys up proper – left it to their mother and what could she do, sick as she was? I tell you what, I been a dead loss all round. No bloody use to nobody.’

Ruth glanced at him quickly. He looked utterly worn down, she thought, defeated. He looked as if he’d lost every shred of belief in himself. She moved and put a hand on his arm.

‘It isn’t all your fault, Dan. You did your best. You went to work and earned a living for your family, and you’ve been doing good war work too, going out on those ships and risking your life … Sammy’s told me. He’s told me all about it.’

‘Sammy’s a good boy,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘But
you don’t want to believe everything he says. I’ve been a bad father and I know it.’

‘Well,’ Mr Beckett said after a short pause, ‘be that as it may – and only you know the truth, Mr Hodges – the important thing now is to find him. We know he may have got on a train to either London or Brighton.’ He looked at the policeman. ‘Is there any way of finding that out?’

‘They’re asking the guards now. They know which ones were on those trains, so if either of them saw Sammy they may remember him. He’d have had the wrong ticket, see.’

‘And what would they have done?’ Ruth asked.

Constable Percy looked embarrassed. ‘Well, as to that … It’s an offence, see, Mrs Purslow, to travel on a train without a ticket. Or the wrong ticket, adds up to the same thing. He could have been charged at a police station. Or they might have just put him off at the next stop, or even let him go back and start again. As long as he hadn’t left the station—’

‘So Sammy may have gone to – to Brighton, or London, and then turned round and gone back to Portsmouth? But if he did that, why hasn’t he turned up at Bridge End? It’s two nights now.’ Ruth’s voice rose a little and she began to cry. ‘Something awful’s happened to him – I know it has. Oh Sammy,
Sammy
—’

Without even thinking about it she turned and buried her head against Dan’s chest. Automatically, he put his arms round her and held her close. They stood very still for a moment, then he began to stroke her hair.

‘Don’t cry, Ruth. Don’t cry now. We’ll find him. We’ll find our boy …’

There was a silence. Ruth lifted her head away and they looked into each other’s eyes for a long moment. Then Constable Percy cleared his throat and Mr Beckett spoke quietly.

‘I think I know what could have happened.’

They all turned and stared at him. Ruth stepped away from Dan and he let his arms fall. The vicar went on.

‘Suppose he was put off at the next station, or maybe at Brighton or even Waterloo, and told to get the train back to Portsmouth. Suppose he was told which train to get on to reach Bridge End. And then, suppose for some reason he missed the station. It’s easily done. All the signboards have been taken down, people are missing their stations all the time. Sammy wouldn’t have any idea when he was supposed to get off – especially if he’d already been frightened once by being on the wrong train.’

‘So where would he have got off?’ Dan asked. ‘Don’t tell me he went to somewhere like Plymouth next! Blimey, we’ll never know where to look. He could be anywhere.’

‘Well, he might have got off at Southampton. He’d know by then he’d gone too far.’ Mr Beckett turned to Ruth. ‘Has he ever been to Southampton?’

‘Yes, once. Lizzie took him to see where the liners used to dock. He was fascinated by the ships.’ Ruth’s voice shook. ‘I used to tell him some of my Jack’s stories. And Lizzie used to give him Alec’s news as well. You don’t suppose …’

‘He’d never get aboard a ship,’ the vicar said firmly. ‘But he might well find himself in Southampton. And isn’t Lizzie there now, working in the big hospital? He might have gone to her.’

‘But she’d let us know straight away.’ Ruth put her hand to her mouth. ‘Unless he got to the hospital but couldn’t find her – it’s a huge place, not like our little Cottage Hospital here. Oh, I’m sure you’re right, Mr Beckett, that’s what he’ll have done.’ She turned to Dan. ‘We’d better go to Southampton. We’ll go to the hospital and find Lizzie, and if he turns up there she’ll be ready for him. Oh, Mr Beckett!’

‘We don’t
know
that that’s what’s happened,’ the vicar
warned her. ‘It’s mere supposition. Sammy might not have gone to Southampton at all. It’s no more than an idea.’

‘But it’s a chance!’ She pulled at Dan’s sleeve. ‘Let’s go at once! There’s a bus – or we can catch the train. We’ve got to try, at least.’

He stared at her. ‘I can’t – I got to get back, I got to go to work in the morning. Oh, my God!’ He put his hand to his head. ‘What am I going to do? If I don’t go back I’ll lose me job, I’ll lose everything, and it’s not just me, it’s the war, I’ve
got
to do me job – but I can’t go off without knowing where my boy is, I
can’t
.’

Ruth felt a great welling up of pity for the bewildered man, so big yet so helpless. Poor chap, she thought, he’s never really realised what Sammy meant to him till this moment. He just doesn’t know what to do … She moved closer, laying her hand on his shoulder, wishing she could give him some comfort. But her own anxiety was too great. She needed comfort too. Even though Sammy wasn’t her child, she needed the comfort needed by any bereft mother.

Mr Beckett looked at them. ‘Tell me where you work,’ he said to Dan. ‘I’ll telephone and explain. I’m sure it will be all right …’ Hoping it was true, he glanced at the policeman. ‘It’s worth a try. And you could try the station too,’ he added to Ruth and Dan. ‘There are any number of places you could look.’ It would at least give them something to do, he thought, better than torturing themselves by waiting here at Bridge End. ‘But you must keep in touch. Telephone Constable Percy here whenever you get the chance, just in case there’s any news.’

‘We will.’ Ruth was almost dragging Dan out of the door. ‘There’s a train in five minutes. We’ll be just in time—’ They were gone, leaving the vicar and policeman together, looking at each other.

‘Well,’ Mr Beckett said a little doubtfully, ‘I suppose they may be lucky. But it really was no more than an idea.
There are any number of things that could have happened to Sammy.’

‘There are,’ the policeman agreed heavily. ‘And there are any number of people who go missing these days, kiddies among ’em. If he’s fallen into a dock – or got took away by someone – we might never know anything about it. We might never see that nipper again and that’s the truth of it.’

The same thought was in Ruth’s mind as she sat with Dan Hodges on the train to Southampton.

‘Suppose we don’t find him?’ she said, staring out of the window. ‘Suppose we never find out what’s happened to him? You hear such awful things …’ She turned to Dan, staring at him with huge green eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Dan, I know he’s your son, not mine, but – but I’m as fond of him as if he was my own. I don’t think I could bear it if anything’s happened to him.’

Dan stared back at her. She saw him bite his lips, saw him blink very quickly as if trying to force back tears. He’s as upset as I am, she thought. He’s not a hard man at all, not really. He’s just had a hard life. He’s as good a man as any other underneath it all. He could be kind and gentle, if only he’d let himself. He could be loving …

She remembered how he’d held her, in the front room of the police house. The feel of his big hands as he’d stroked her hair, the comfort of his arms, the gentleness in his voice.

‘I couldn’t bear it either,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘I’d never be able to forgive myself if anything’s happened to that boy. It’s all my fault. I was supposed to look after him and look what I’ve done. I’ve let him go. And God knows what’s happened to him now.’

‘It’s not all your fault,’ she said. ‘You wanted to see him for Christmas. He’s your boy, after all. And you’ve got a job to do – you didn’t know you were going to have to go to sea.’

‘I knew there was a chance of it.’ He paused for a moment and then said, ‘If we find him –
when
we find him – I want him to come back to you. If you’ll have him, I mean.’

‘If I’ll have him? Whatever makes you say that? Of course I’ll have him!’

‘Well, after all this trouble I’ve caused you might say you don’t want no more to do with either of us.’

‘I won’t ever say that,’ Ruth said positively. ‘I won’t ever say that, Dan. Not about you – and certainly not about Sammy. You must see how fond of him I am.’

‘I do,’ he said. ‘I knew it already. And Sammy’s fond of you too, and I don’t mind telling you I didn’t altogether like it when I first saw it. I suppose if you come down to it, I was jealous. I’m not proud of that, but there it is. But – well, now I think that it’s what Sammy needs that matters most and he needs a good home, like you’ve give him, with someone that cares about him. So I’d like him to stop with you for the rest of the war – if you’ll have him.’

‘And what happens after the war?’ Ruth asked quietly.

Dan paused for a long moment before answering. Then he said, ‘That ain’t going to be for a long time yet, Ruth. The way the world’s going, it’s going to take years to sort out this mess. Our Sammy’s going to be a few years older by then and I reckon he’ll have got used to the country. I don’t think he’ll want to come back to Pompey, not the way it’ll be then.’ He stopped speaking for a moment, then went on, ‘And I dunno as I’ll want to stop in Pompey myself, when it’s all over. It’s not the same there any more. All the bombing, it’s wrecked the place and I’ve lost heart with it. And since I been coming out to Bridge End …’

‘What?’ Ruth asked, as his voice died away and he stared out of the window. ‘What do you mean, Dan?’

‘I’ve never been out in the country much,’ he said. ‘The first time I rode out on me bike, through all the fields and the trees – well, it was different from what I’d thought. It
made me feel different about myself – sort of quiet. Peaceful. I’ve never felt like that before. Never.’ He was silent again. ‘I been wondering if me and Sammy couldn’t sort of start again, somewhere like Bridge End. I wouldn’t mind getting a job in the country, if there’s anything going. I can turn my hand to most things and I’d be ready to learn. Trees,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t mind learning about trees … I haven’t
decided
nothing, mind,’ he added quickly. ‘I’ve just been wondering.’

Ruth looked at him for a moment. She thought of Sammy, staying with her until the war was over. She thought of Dan moving out to be with him, perhaps renting a cottage nearby. She thought, for a moment or two, of Jack.

The train was running into the town now, between narrow streets and crowded little houses. Ruth looked out of the window and thought of Sammy, perhaps wandering through those very streets, bewildered and lost. Sammy, the little boy they both loved.

Dan seemed to be thinking the same thing. He shook himself a little and said with sudden roughness, ‘I dunno why I’m talking like this now. I ought to be thinking about finding him. That’s the first thing we’ve got to do. Oh, Ruth –’ he turned to her in sudden anguish ‘– Ruth, what am I going to do if we don’t find him?’ He bunched his hand into a fist and thumped it on his knee. ‘What in God’s name am I going to
do
?’

Ruth gave a sudden sob. She moved a little closer and put out her hand. She laid it over his and rested her head against his shoulder.

‘We’ll find him,’ she whispered, praying that it might be true. ‘We’ll find him, Dan, together.’

Sammy had woken on Tuesday morning, stiff and cold. He lay for a moment staring around him at the unfamiliar walls, filthy with smoke, soot and dust. For a few minutes, he could not think where he was.

Then a bitter wave of memory swept over him. He was lost, somewhere in Southampton. He had spent the night in a bombed building. He didn’t know where he was, or how to get out of the town. He didn’t know how to get back to Bridge End and he didn’t have enough money anyway. It was bitterly cold and he’d lost all his possessions, his toys, his book, his gloves and his woolly jumper. He was hungry and thirsty, and he had only just enough to buy himself a penny bun and something to drink.