The Cuckoo Child (8 page)
Corky had been annoyed at the time because he looked forward to his tea. There was always a huge plate of bread and marge, though never as much as one would have liked, a tin mug of weak tea and a slice of seed cake. But because of the overheard conversation, he had been glad of the thinking time. The more he considered what the reporter had said, the more determined he became to take the young man’s advice. London was full of boys who probably looked a lot like him – oh, they were dirty and he was clean, but he could soon remedy that – and with a hundred boys at Redwood Grange, why should anyone bother to look for him, even after they discovered he was missing? They would probably be downright grateful; there was never enough food to go round, so once he was away he would be one less mouth to feed.
The real obstacle to running away, the one the masters relied upon, was the orphanage uniform. The boys wore brown shirts and brown trousers, made of some strong cotton material which was too hot in summer and much too cold in winter. It was also horribly distinctive, but Corky, glancing at the crocodile of brown-clad boys ahead of him, decided that this was a challenge to ingenuity. If only he had some money, he could buy some sort of garment from someone, he supposed. But the Redwood Grange boys were never given even the smallest sum until they were fifteen, when the powers that be apparently realised that some knowledge of money was essential if they were to survive after leaving the orphanage. Since Corky would not be fifteen for a whole year, he scarcely knew what money looked like, though there were representations of all the coinage, from a farthing to a half-crown, and even pictures of bank notes, in their blue arithmetic books.
So Corky struggled with his problem as the crocodile approached the recreation ground. When they were walking through the narrow streets, fringed on either side by tottering slums, they often saw lines of washing flapping above their heads. Once I’m away, I can nick an old shirt and some grey trousers off one of those lines, Corky told himself. Once I’m away I’ll be all right, and this here’s my best opportunity because no one, not even old Blister, can keep his eye on fifty boys at once. No use going now, because a gap in the crocodile would stand out like a sore thumb, but when we get to the rec everyone will push forward and fan out and then, if I keep my nerve, I can be away before old Blister’s nose has lost its drip.
Corky’s partner in the crocodile was a small, wiry boy called Freddie; not a particular friend, merely someone Corky knew vaguely. If Freddie had been a pal, Corky’s escape would have been more difficult; it would have meant involving someone else, and this was always dangerous. A friend would search for you, might even set up a hue and cry unless he were in on the secret, and in Corky’s view, a secret shared was soon common property.
He was still considering in which direction he should run when they reached the gates and everyone surged forward. Old Blister was at the head of the crocodile and Ratty Evans at the tail, but as they reached the gates Ratty hurried forward, shouting at the boys not to shove, to behave like responsible citizens for once in their lives. Corky glanced around him; no one was even looking in his direction. If he was serious, if he really meant to escape, then now was the time to do it. Without giving himself time to consider, he turned and bent as though searching for something he had dropped, and in this position squiggled against the tide of boys trying to get through the gates, and dived down the nearest alleyway.
If there had been a shout from behind . . . but there was not. No one had noticed his departure, and even had they done so, Corky believed that his fellow pupils would not have snitched on him. Why should they, after all? So he continued to pad along the alleyway until he emerged on to a main road. He crossed the busy street, trying to look both purposeful yet rather aimless, and now glanced behind him. The alleyway down which he had made his escape was empty, the street before him crowded with strangers. Corky stopped short for a moment, feeling the breath catch in his throat. He was alone, in a great city of which he knew absolutely nothing. Boys at the Grange were never alone, except in the punishment cupboard, and sometimes you were not even alone there, only locked in the dark and denied a meal. For a moment, panic gripped him; he had so little knowledge, so few resources. He was running away all right, as the young reporter had advised, but surely one ran away
to
something, or someone – to a family or a friend, somewhere where one would be welcomed. The trouble was, he knew so little! It was essential to get as far away from Redwood Grange as possible if he were not to be ignominiously carted back there by some well-meaning bobby. He knew there were ships in the Port of London and assumed one could stow away upon such a vessel, and he knew there were railway stations whence one could travel to distant parts of the country, but he had no idea in which direction any of these places lay and until he managed to shed his uniform he dared not ask. Any member of the public in these parts would take one look at his brown uniform and know he had no business to be out on the streets alone. His best course, he decided, plodding doggedly along the pavement, was to simply keep walking in as straight a line as he could manage, until it was evening. Then he would be far away from the Isle of Dogs and folk would not be so likely to realise he came from an institution. In fact, if he could just nick a pair of trousers – grey ones – he was pretty sure that he would pass muster as an ordinary street arab and would be accepted as such by anyone he might accost.
to
something, or someone – to a family or a friend, somewhere where one would be welcomed. The trouble was, he knew so little! It was essential to get as far away from Redwood Grange as possible if he were not to be ignominiously carted back there by some well-meaning bobby. He knew there were ships in the Port of London and assumed one could stow away upon such a vessel, and he knew there were railway stations whence one could travel to distant parts of the country, but he had no idea in which direction any of these places lay and until he managed to shed his uniform he dared not ask. Any member of the public in these parts would take one look at his brown uniform and know he had no business to be out on the streets alone. His best course, he decided, plodding doggedly along the pavement, was to simply keep walking in as straight a line as he could manage, until it was evening. Then he would be far away from the Isle of Dogs and folk would not be so likely to realise he came from an institution. In fact, if he could just nick a pair of trousers – grey ones – he was pretty sure that he would pass muster as an ordinary street arab and would be accepted as such by anyone he might accost.
Having made up his mind on this point, Corky began to take a little more interest in his surroundings. It was still broad daylight but he fancied the sun was not as hot as it had been and was a good deal further down in the sky than at the start of his adventure. Soon, he thought, the boys would be leaving the recreation ground and forming into a crocodile. He wondered if Blister would count heads or tell them to walk with their original partners, but he knew that both actions were unlikely. To be sure, Blister would shout at them to form into a crocodile but he would walk ahead with Ratty at the tail, occasionally chivvying their charges to walk faster, but taking very little notice of them otherwise. And Corky remembered, with pleasure, that there had been fifty-one boys so the chances were that, lacking a gap in the crocodile, he would not even be missed.
Corky kept on walking. I’m like Felix, the Film Cat, he told himself, for amongst the tattered books in the Redwood Grange playroom was a much loved copy of a Felix annual and most of the younger boys knew every page by heart. Twice a year – sometimes more often – a benefactor of the orphanage paid for all the boys to attend a showing at the local picture house, and was kind enough to ensure that they saw westerns, cartoons, or gangster films, rather than educational ones.
It occurred to Corky that it must be teatime, since his stomach was beginning to rumble suggestively every time he passed a shop with bread or cakes displayed in its window. He would not have been human had he not considered a quick smash and grab, but he knew that this would lead to his eventual capture for the cry of ‘Stop thief’ would turn every honest man’s hand against him, and presently he was glad he had not taken to crime. He was standing outside a baker’s, gazing wistfully into the window, when there was a tap on his shoulder. He stiffened, made as if to dart away, and found a bag being held under his nose and giving off the most entrancing, spicy smell. He looked up; the bag was being proffered by a fat little woman in black. She had tiny spectacles perched on a little snub nose, and the expression of her small grey eyes was kindly. ‘When I were a kid, I ran away from one of them there orphing places,’ she said, her voice very low. ‘It didn’t do me much good ’cos I were caught next day . . . well, I were that hungry, I were quite glad to be caught . . . but I ’opes as you’ll ‘ave better luck, lad. I bought four buns; I’ll tek two for me tea an’ you can ’ave the bag with the other two in it.’ She thrust the rustling paper bag into Corky’s hands. ‘And ’ere’s a bit of advice, sunshine. Dirty yourself up a bit; kids rahnd ’ere get mucky soon as they leave their ’omes. Good luck!’
She turned and began to waddle away but Corky caught her up. This was the biggest piece of luck so far, he told himself. Quite by chance, he had met someone who would help him, who would not give him away. He put a hand, timidly, on her sleeve, and she stopped at once and smiled at him. ‘Yes, me old china?’
‘Thanks for the buns, missus, only – only I’m more in need of ordinary clothes than food, if you get my meaning,’ Corky said.
‘Well, I ain’t got no spare money, but if you want to come back to my house I could fix you up wi’ summat what weren’t a uniform. I’m a ragger, if you know what that is,’ the old lady said.
Corky was overwhelmed. He said huskily: ‘Oh, missus, I’d be that grateful. If there’s anything I can do for you then I’d do it like a shot.’
The old woman laughed and handed him the bulging canvas bag she was carrying. It was really heavy and Corky marvelled at the old lady’s strength. It must be her week’s shopping, he told himself, hefting it on one shoulder. ‘Mrs Perkin, that’s my monicker, an’ who’s you, my fine young feller?’
Corky hesitated. He had no desire to tell anyone his real name yet it seemed downright insulting not to do so when Mrs Perkin had already been so good to him. He decided on a sort of halfway house. ‘Me pals call me Corky and I’d be right glad if you did the same,’ he said. ‘I can’t shake your hand, Mrs Perkin, on account of both mine being full, but I’m happy to meet you. Well, it were a rare bit of luck for me,’ he added honestly. ‘Which orphanage were you in? Somewhere local, were it?’
The old woman chuckled, but shook her head. ‘Nah. You might not think it ’cos I’m a real Londoner now – a Cockney sparrer you might say. I did get away from the orphanage in the end. It were in Liverpool, what’s a big city . . . oh, miles an’ miles from London. It were harder for me, bein’ a girl, and I was small for thirteen, too – still am, for that matter, though I shan’t see seventy agin – but I were determined, you see? I’d met this young feller who were cabin boy on one of the big liners and though I were only young, I wanted to see him again. He give me his address down London, said if I were ever that way I must call in because his ma were a grand old gal and would help me as soon as she knew I were a friend of her Georgie, so I smuggled myself aboard a coaster and after quite a long while I got to London. I made my way to the East End, to Abbot Road in Poplar, and old Mrs Perkin was everything her son had said, and more. She took me in, helped me to find a job, saw me clothed decent an’ four years later I married Georgie and we set up house in the very same place I’m taking you back to, this minute.’ As she spoke, she had turned into a narrow entry between two rows of houses, and after a few yards she stopped outside a substantial-looking door set in the brickwork. She lifted the latch then waved Corky to go before her. ‘Here you are, ’ome, sweet ’ome! Welcome to number twelve Herbee Place, Bethnal Green. It ain’t much but no one won’t search for you ’ere and the two of us will be snug as bugs in rugs – till you want to move on, of course.’ She fished a key from the lintel above the door, turned it in the lock, and the two of them entered a small but cheerful kitchen. A fire burned in the grate, a black iron kettle steamed on the hob and there was a good smell of cooking which seemed to emanate from the round black pot which hung on a chain over the fire. ‘Where’s you thinkin’ of headin’ for? Got somewhere in mind, have you?’
Corky shook his head. ‘I don’t know where’s best to go, ’cept that I want to be as far from the Isle of Dogs as possible. I wonder . . . how old do you have to be afore you can become a cabin boy?’
His hostess had sat herself down in a chair, or rather collapsed into it, but now she turned and gestured to the kettle on the hob. ‘Pull the kettle over the fire, there’s a good lad. I’s dead parched, and dyin’ for a cup o’ char,’ she said. ‘As for cabin boys, I dunno as there’s a pertickler age but I dare say someone might take you on. There’s no fishin’ fleet out o’ the Port o’ London but I remember Mr Perkin tellin’ me once that his father had sailed with a fishin’ fleet out o’ Plymouth, in Devonshire, when he were no more than twelve. Ah, kettle’s boilin’, I’m glad to see.’
She made as if to struggle out of the chair but Corky shook his head at her. ‘No you don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘Tell me where you keep the tea and so on and I’ll make us both a cuppa.’
The old woman sighed deeply and sat back in her chair. ‘Tea’s in the cupboard beside the sink and there’s a jug of milk on the stone slab under the window,’ she said. ‘Beside the milk, there’s a lump of marge. If you’ll split the buns, we’ll have a spread of marge on them and eat them with our tea. Can you manage that, d’you think?’
‘Course I can,’ Corky said, a trifle reproachfully, and then had to ask where she kept her knives, but presently the two of them settled down with tea and buns and Corky told his new friend a good deal about Redwood Grange, most of which caused her to eye him sympathetically and to say that he was clearly best out of it, even if his escape might not lead to an easier life so much as a different one.
After the tea was drunk and the buns eaten, Mrs Perkin showed Corky round the house. She was very proud of the fact that the hot water for baths and washing up came from a gas-powered geyser above the sink. To be sure, one still had to carry cans of water to fill the big tin bath, but only ten years ago she had had to heat the water in a large kettle over her kitchen fire, so the geyser represented a considerable saving in labour, so far as his hostess was concerned. This seemed odd to Corky, since whatever the failings of the orphanage hot water had always gushed forth at the turn of a tap, but he did not comment, realising that it would have been tactless, to say the least.
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