The Cuckoo Child (13 page)
Almost shocked by the number of lies he had told in such a short time, Corky decided to investigate the contents of his carpet bag. He dared not open the purse’s drawstring neck with so many people milling about, but on the pretext of extracting a cheese sandwich from its newspaper wrapping he managed to have a good feel round the outside of the purse and decided – oh joy – that it contained at least one banknote, and possibly two. Dear Mrs Perkin!
Despite his brave words to the old woman sitting next to him, he had no idea what he would do when he reached Liverpool, but with real money in his possession he should be able to afford a bed in a cheap lodging house until he found work of some description. It was a pity he was small for his age – he blamed this on the home and the poor quality of the food they were given – but during his stay with the Perkin family he had learned that a strong boy, not afraid of hard work, could make himself enough money to get by . . . and there was always the hope of a job as cabin boy aboard a big liner.
Presently, the old woman got to her feet and picked up her suitcase. ‘Train’s in; we might as well get ourselves a seat,’ she said. Corky tried to take the case from her but she hung on grimly. ‘No, no, we’d best each manage our own,’ she said. ‘You hang on to that there bag of yours an’ all, ’cos all big stations is full of thieves.’
Corky understood from this that she trusted no one and, on reflection, thought her sensible. He, too, must remember that everything he possessed was in the carpet bag. If he found a lodging house, he would pull the bag into bed with him and sleep curled round it, for without it he would be lost indeed.
The oddly assorted couple went straight to platform three – the old woman knew the way – climbed aboard the train and settled themselves comfortably in a No Smoking carriage. The old woman advised Corky to put his bag under the seat where he could feel its comforting bulk against his calves.
The carriage began to fill up and then, as the train pulled out of the station, Corky felt his eyelids begin to droop, for it had been both an exciting and a tiring day. At first he struggled against sleep, but then it occurred to him that his new friend, whose name was Mrs Arbuthnot, might well wish to continue their conversation and he was not sure he would be able to remember, as he grew sleepier, with which particular lies he had regaled her. He had told her, feeling extremely guilty, that he was Cyril Samuels, had claimed to be the eldest of a large family, had said he was on his way to visit relatives who lived in . . . oh lor, the name of the street had completely escaped him. Hastily, he let his head loll forward and gave what he hoped was a small but convincing snore. He would feign sleep; it would be a good deal safer than falling into conversation once more.
Presently, he opened one eye a slit and glanced through his lashes at his companion. She, too, seemed to have given way to slumber so it would probably be safe enough to sit up and begin to look around him, even to watch the passing scene, for he had managed to get the corner seat. But he decided he would just close his eyes for a minute whilst the train chugged through the sprawling city suburbs; he would wake up properly once they were in the countryside. But he was tired, most dreadfully tired . . .
Corky slept.
He awoke when the train drew into a busy station and half opened his eyes. Mrs Arbuthnot was pushing her suitcase back beneath the seat, having abstracted some item of food from its depths. She looked a little flushed, doubtless from the effort of getting the suitcase out without waking him, but she sat back in her seat and began to eat the sandwich which she held in one hand. It looked good, and for a moment Corky was tempted to ferret in his carpet bag, for he had plenty of sandwiches still left in there himself, and seeing the old woman eating so enthusiastically had made him hungry. But even as the thought entered his head, the train began to move once more, and the swaying movement, as well as the soft, rhythmic clatter of the wheels, soon had him sleeping soundly once more. He awoke because someone was shaking his shoulder. It was Mrs Arbuthnot. Her hair stood wildly on end and her crumpled little face was pink, so Corky guessed that she, too, must have slept, though she was now wide awake.
‘C’mon, young feller; you’ve no time to lose if you’re going to get to a lodging house before they’re all full of sailors and such,’ she said, pushing him ahead of her on to the platform. ‘I won’t go with you, ’cos I always lodge with the same fambly, but I can put you on the right road.’ She seized his arm and Corky, grasping his carpet bag, though still dazed with sleep, almost had to run to keep up with her. He saw a policeman standing on the platform and his heart missed a beat, then he remembered that he was far from the Perkins and Herbee Place and straightened his shoulders; no copper was going to be on the lookout for him here, not yet at any rate.
Outside the station, night had definitely fallen, and though the gas lamps were lit and there were plenty of people jostling along the pavement Corky felt extremely uneasy. He had never ventured up London’s West End so had seen none of the big shops, office blocks and hotels which abounded there, and the authorities at Redwood Grange had never taken the boys to see St Paul’s, Westminster Abbey or the Houses of Parliament, so Corky was astonished at the size and magnificence of the huge building opposite the station, which he afterwards found was called St George’s Hall. He was also amazed by the numbers of elegantly dressed ladies who strolled up and down the pavements, occasionally accosting, or being accosted by, passing men. They were very beautiful, but something about the way they looked at him was worrying and he was glad when his companion hustled him past them, pointed to a street on the opposite side of the road and told him that he must go down there to reach the docks and the lodging houses she had mentioned.
‘I can’t come with you, ’cos I’m late already,’ she said hurriedly, giving him a push which nearly sent him under the wheels of a passing lorry. ‘Off you go, young feller-me-lad. You’ve got enough for a night’s lodgings at any one of them places down by the docks. Take care now.’
Corky began to cross the busy road, frowning a little. What had she meant? He had not discussed his finances with her but supposed she had simply guessed that he must have sufficient money for a night’s lodging. He gained the opposite pavement and gazed down the road she had indicated. Suddenly, he found himself feeling distinctly lost and alone. He turned to stare after the old woman but she had disappeared completely and he realised that though she had talked of lodgings where she always stayed when she visited the city, she had neither named her landlady nor mentioned a street, far less a number. Still, she was an old lady – no, a nice old lady – who had done everything she could to help him. She had simply forgotten to tell him where she was staying or perhaps had not considered it necessary. Why should he need to know, after all? He had told her he was going to visit relatives and then look for a job. The fact that she had mentioned his money meant nothing, nothing at all. It was just a guess, and a pretty wild one, too, since he knew very well that his money would buy him a good deal more than one night’s lodging.
He told himself that all this should have eased his mind, but somehow it did not, and when he saw, to his left, a pleasant-looking public garden surrounded by sandstone walls, he glanced round hastily, found himself alone and unobserved, and shinned over the wall. He dropped on to the grass and looked around him; there was a bench nearby and he sat down on it and then, feeling that he was being a great fool for everyone knew that white-haired old women meant young boys nothing but good, he plunged his hands inside the carpet bag. The first thing he noticed was that his packets of sandwiches felt considerably smaller than they should have done. He pulled them out, then counted the contents. He had eaten one of each on the platform, which should have left five of each. Instead, there were now two ham sandwiches and four cheese ones. Corky’s heart started to thump uneasily as his fingers rooted through his small personal possessions to the very bottom of the bag where, to his immense relief, he found the wash leather purse, strings drawn tight. His heart immediately slowed to a more normal pace but he drew the purse forth, telling himself that Mrs Arbuthnot was welcome to the sandwiches, which he would have happily shared with her had he been awake to do so. The money, of course, was a different matter, but there was still money in the purse . . . however, he must check. He untied the little bow, inserted both forefingers and stretched the neck of the purse wide open. Then he looked inside and his heart began to thump quickly once more. There were no notes, nor was there the gleam of silver. In fact, the small purse was half filled with copper: pennies, ha’pennies and even farthings.
He could not believe it at first. He spread his spare shirt out on the bench and tipped the contents of the purse out upon it. There was a lamp quite near the bench and it illumined only copper, yet he knew that there had been no copper at all in the purse when he had set out, unless Mrs Perkin had put some in, as well as the notes which he had felt, crackling crisply, when he had explored the purse earlier. Of course he had not looked inside, not with so many people about, but he had known the feel of banknotes, though of course he could not tell whether they were ten shilling or pound ones. Then it occurred to him that the old woman might have decided to give him a tip. She might have fished the purse out, emptied the contents into his carpet bag – clearly not realising their worth – and filled it up with the collection of copper it now contained.
Feverishly, Corky’s hands explored every corner, every crack and crevice of the carpet bag, and found nothing, save for his clothing, copies of
Chips
and
Film Fun
, two of the three apples and the chunk of fruit cake which Mrs Perkin had pressed upon him. Wild with despair, yet with hope still not dead, Corky tipped the coppers carefully back into the purse, tied its drawstring neck and then upended the carpet bag on to the bench until it was as empty as a bass drum. It was only then that he was able to acknowledge that he had been duped as though he were no more than two years old, by a crafty woman who must have taken his measure from the moment she had seen him in Euston Station.
Chips
and
Film Fun
, two of the three apples and the chunk of fruit cake which Mrs Perkin had pressed upon him. Wild with despair, yet with hope still not dead, Corky tipped the coppers carefully back into the purse, tied its drawstring neck and then upended the carpet bag on to the bench until it was as empty as a bass drum. It was only then that he was able to acknowledge that he had been duped as though he were no more than two years old, by a crafty woman who must have taken his measure from the moment she had seen him in Euston Station.
Corky began pushing his possessions back into the carpet bag, hissing maledictions between clenched teeth. Now he realised why she had advised him to put his bag beneath the seat instead of up on the string rack above their heads. She would not have been able to get his bag down – she was a small woman – without drawing attention to what she was doing whereas, because it was beneath the seat, all she had had to do was bend down, unclick the clasps and pretend to be helping herself to a sandwich. Dimly, he now remembered hearing her telling someone that this young fellow was her nephew, and the two of them were travelling up to Liverpool to look after the children of a sick relative. At the time, he had thought how wonderfully kind she was, pretending that they were together so no one would suspect him of being a runaway. Now, of course, he knew better. She was as cunning as a fox, as crooked as – as Wilf Perkin, and as mean as it was possible to be, for she must have known he was alone in the world and dependent upon the money in the small purse. He was working up a good rage towards Mrs Arbuthnot – only her name was probably Crippen, he thought nastily – when he remembered all the lies he had told. He had said he was going to relatives who needed him, would only want lodgings for one night until he could reach his uncle’s home, had a family back in London who had supported him, giving him his train fare with their blessing so that, when his uncle and aunt no longer needed him, he might seek his fortune among the transatlantic liners.
Corky finished his packing but kept the sandwiches beside him on the bench. Sighing, he reminded himself of what he had been told so often at Redwood Grange: liars never prosper. Well, he had proved the old saying true tonight. Mrs Arbuthnot was doubtless a nasty old woman, a thief and a liar, but she had not known she was robbing a friendless orphan boy of his only means of support. Anyway, it would teach him not to go round trusting everyone he met, and in the meanwhile he would eat his sandwiches and then kip down on the bench for what was left of the night. Fortunately, the weather was clement, and he told himself that by the time morning came he would have worked out a plan. Presently, having eaten both the ham sandwiches, he returned the cheese ones to the carpet bag and, using his luggage as a pillow, curled up on the bench. It was hard and the carpet bag was not soft either, but Corky had been through a great deal that day. Very soon, he slept.
Chapter FiveWandering along in the sunshine, Dot felt at peace with the world. Passing Mr Rathbone’s shop she smiled to herself, for the previous day she and Aunt Myrtle had done the messages together and her aunt had announced her intention of visiting Rathbone’s. ‘Now that Mr Rathbone and your uncle are on good terms, like, I’ll see if I can get some meat a bit cheaper,’ she had said. ‘You go on up to the greengrocer’s and buy a stone of spuds, a large cabbage and a turnip or two.’ Dot had groaned a bit at the thought of lugging all that weight about but when Aunt Myrtle had said, amicably enough, that if Dot preferred it they would swap over and she would get the vegetables, Dot had said at once that she would rather leave things as they were, since Mr Gaulton, the greengrocer, would very likely give her a plum or a small red apple, whereas Mr Rathbone only handed out abuse and clips round the ear.
Her aunt had laughed and gone off quite happily into Mr Rathbone’s shop, apparently believing that because he had been drinking with her husband he would treat her like a valued customer. And when Dot and her aunt met up again, she told her niece that this had indeed been the case. ‘I axed for a nice lean piece of pork and said I’d be obliged if he’d throw in some bones for stock and let me have half a pound of calves’ liver to make a nice rich stew. He pulled a sort of face, but went over and got everything I’d asked him for, wrapped it all up in newspaper, shoved it into me bag, give me a bit of a wink and only charged me a few bob for the lot. But I reckon I’d best call on him myself in future, so’s we get stuff cheap because, as you say, he don’t like kids and might not know you were me niece.’
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