‘Yes, Mrs Roberts will let you take my room, so you can move in right away because I’m afraid I have to catch a train later this morning to return to my station,’ Pete told her. He hesitated. ‘Look, Debbie, your house is a real mess. Are you sure you want to go back there?’
By now, they had emerged on to the Stanley Road, Dusty frisking along beside them, and Debbie turned into Fountains Road, pulling Pete with her. ‘I know it’s been bombed, but it wasn’t a direct hit, was it? Anyway, the wardens rescue anything they can get out all in one piece, and – and I have to look.’
Pete nodded. ‘Yes, you’ll want to see it,’ he agreed. ‘Only I don’t suppose they’ll manage to salvage much.’
They turned into Wykeham Street and Debbie gasped, then hurried forward. Someone had piled a number of things on the pavement outside her home. The wooden kitchen table, a couple of easy chairs, and a nest of occasional tables, sturdily built of oak, had survived. In addition, there were a number of pots and pans and clothing, though most of it was extremely dirty. She turned the clothes over gingerly, her lip trembling, for it all seemed to have belonged to her mother. She could see no sign of the bureau; nevertheless, she went through the pile, revealing a quantity of tins of various foodstuffs, but then she turned a disappointed face up to Pete’s. ‘Mam’s bureau isn’t here,’ she said blankly. ‘It was old, but it was real sturdy. Hang on a minute, here comes one of the fellers who goes into bombed property to keep your stuff safe . . .’ She jerked her head at the pile of goods on the pavement. ‘He’ll have got all that stuff out of our house.’
When questioned about the bureau, however, the man could only shake his head. ‘Blast’s a strange thing,’ he told them. ‘It can reduce a great heavy Welsh dresser to matchwood and leave a delicate little teapot standing right next to it, as perfect as the day it were made.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully, tilting his tin hat back in order to do so. ‘A little bureau, you say? No, I don’t recall seeing such a thing.’
Debbie turned away, thanking him for his good offices in a rather flat voice. ‘If you could put the stuff away for me until I’ve got somewhere to live, I’d be ever so grateful,’ she said. ‘We had a lodger called Max Williams; if he comes round, don’t let him take anything, because he is only the lodger. I’m the householder now.’
‘Right,’ the man said. He hesitated. ‘Do you want to take the tinned goods, though? We does our best, but believe it or not, some bombed houses get looted while the bleedin’ Luftwaffe are still overhead. An’ tins is awful easy to stick in your pocket an’ steal.’
Debbie was so disappointed over the loss of the bureau that she felt indifferent to the fate of the tins, but Pete soon put her right. ‘We’ll take ’em,’ he said, handing the baby back to her and picking up a pillow case covered in brick dust from the top of a pile of linen. ‘You’ll be glad of them when you do get a place of your own,’ he told Debbie. ‘And so will Baby. I remember my ma straining a tin of peaches through a sieve for my little brother; you could do that for her.’
‘So I could,’ Debbie said. She glanced round her wistfully. They had been happy here, she and her mam, but it was pretty clear that it would be many years before Wykeham Street rose from the ashes again. Through the shattered walls she could see the ruins of the shed in the back yard, and she sent up a brief but heartfelt prayer of thanks that the last of the hens had been killed outright, and had not been made to suffer, before their home had been so rudely torn asunder. She told herself, severely, that looking back could only lead to tears and pain, and turned to thank the man for his help.
‘That’s all right, queen,’ he said awkwardly. ‘By the by, where did you get that baby? I disremember your mam havin’ any kids other than yourself . . . or does it belong to the young feller?’
Debbie felt her cheeks grow hot; she should have realised that all the neighbours who had known herself and Jess would also know that neither of them had a baby. But if she admitted that the baby wasn’t hers someone would take it away from her, and she didn’t think she could bear that. She cast an appealing look at Pete and was surprised to see him looking relieved, though she could not imagine why. Quickly, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm, pinching him convulsively. ‘That’s right. Baby is Pete’s little girl,’ she said. ‘I’ve been helping him to look after her because men don’t know much about babies, but I’ll be giving her back to his wife when – er – when we meet up.’ She turned desperate eyes on Pete. ‘Can you manage that great heavy pillow case full of tins? Only I can’t help because of Baby here.’
‘I can manage,’ Pete said shortly. Debbie saw that he was looking annoyed and couldn’t blame him. One minute the poor chap had been fancy-free and the next she had saddled him not only with a baby, but with a wife as well. Still, he had backed her up and she was grateful; so grateful that she supposed she would have to confide in him, which meant admitting that she did not know who Baby’s mother was, that she had, in fact, stolen her . . . well, not exactly stolen, because of course she meant to give her back to her real mother, if the woman was still alive. Otherwise, I shall jolly well keep her, she told herself.
Briskly, she turned away. Pete had hefted the pillow case across one shoulder and as soon as they were out of earshot he pulled her to a halt, stopping so abruptly that the dog’s cold nose bumped into the back of Debbie’s knees. Then he turned and faced her and she saw that he was looking grim. ‘Just what sort of game are you playing, young woman?’ he asked angrily. ‘You’ve been lying to me all along, haven’t you? You said the baby was yours when it was no such thing, and now you’ve said it’s mine. Do you intend to tell people you’re my wife? Is that to be your next lie?’
Debbie stared at him, her own anger slowly mounting. ‘I did
not
lie to you,’ she said furiously. ‘Oh, I said the baby was mine but she is, because the old woman who had her in the shelter didn’t care tuppence for her. She handed her over to me and Gwen and then snored off to sleep. Why, it were me who fed her with the milk the shelter marshal gave us. Gwen and I worked out that she had probably stolen the baby – gypsies do steal babies – and we meant to find its real mother and hand it back.’
‘Well, you never told me any of that,’ Pete said. ‘You said the baby was yours when you should have said that you were looking after it for someone else – or – or – that you didn’t know whose it was. I thought it really
was
yours!’
‘Stop calling her “it”; I’ve named her Baby. And she is mine because finders keepers, you know,’ Debbie snapped. ‘I don’t see anything wrong in that. After all, I’m going to tell everyone Dusty is mine because I shall feed him and take care of him, and anyway, he wants to be mine. That’s why he follows us without us having to put him on a lead.’
‘You still don’t understand, do you, you silly little girl?’ Pete said and Debbie realised that he was seriously annoyed with her. ‘Can’t you see what it looked like when you said the baby was mine? Why, even when you said you didn’t know who the father was . . . Deborah Ryan, I thought you were its bloody mother!’
By now Debbie was really angry. ‘Don’t call her
it
,’ she shouted. ‘And how could you possibly have believed I was Baby’s mother? I’m only fifteen, and I’m not married! Why, you must have thought I was a bad girl!’
‘Yes, I did; it’s what anyone would have thought,’ Pete said crossly. He began to walk again, so fast that Debbie had to trot to keep up. ‘Now you can just explain exactly what happened, how you got hold of the baby and why you said I was its father.’
‘I don’t see why I should,’ Debbie said sulkily, after a long pause. ‘It’s none of your bleedin’ business. You’re going to catch a train in a little while and go back to your beastly aeroplane and your beastly friends. I’ve no doubt you’ll forget all about me and Baby here, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever set eyes on you again. So why should I tell you anything?’
‘Because if you don’t tell me, then I shall take the baby to the police and say I think it’s been stolen,’ Pete said. He looked down at Debbie and grinned. It was not a friendly grin. ‘You see, I’ve got my own reputation to think about. You told that feller it was my baby so I reckon I’m entitled to see it’s properly looked after.’
Debbie stared at him, feeling tears rise to her eyes. She had thought him her friend, the only friend she had left in a suddenly hostile world. And now he had turned on her. He had thought her a bad girl, the sort of girl who went with sailors down on the docks, and gave birth to bastard babies. He had called her a liar when she was no such thing and had threatened to tell the police that Baby was not hers. She knew, of course, that if the authorities knew that Baby wasn’t hers they would take the child from her and put her in an orphanage, and that would be dreadful. But if she could just escape from him . . . no, better to tell him the whole story, promise faithfully to get in touch with the authorities, and then see him aboard his train. As soon as she was able, she would move out of the lodgings he had found for her, leaving no forwarding address. That would scotch his bright idea of going to the police!
‘Well?’ Pete said. ‘Are you going to come clean, tell me the whole story?’
Debbie’s shoulders sagged. ‘All right, but is it far to Mrs What’s-her-name’s house? Only the baby is beginning to feel awfully heavy and I’m awfully tired,’ she ended.
Pete looked down and she saw that his expression had softened. ‘It’s not far at all, so keep your pecker up,’ he said encouragingly. ‘In fact, I shan’t be sorry to put this bloody bag of tins down, because if you think the baby’s heavy, you want to try carting this!’
‘It was your idea to bring them,’ Debbie reminded him, but she did not speak critically. She knew she would be grateful for the tins when she was feeding herself once more. Presently they arrived at the lodging house, and Pete introduced her to Mrs Roberts, who proved to be a motherly, middle-aged woman with grey-streaked hair cut in an Eton crop and rather dreamy blue eyes. She greeted Debbie kindly and admired the baby, then led them into the house. Pete paused to read just the pillow case across his shoulders, but Mrs Roberts ushered Debbie straight to the staircase, saying, ‘Now come up and see your room. I’ve not give you Mr Solomon’s since I reckon you’d rather pay a bit less for the back bedroom, which is nearer the bathroom. As it happens, I’ve another very nice gentleman interested in the front room, and being a widow I can’t afford to turn down good money.’ She smiled at Debbie. ‘Now, Flying Officer Solomon was telling me you’d been bombed out, you poor thing, so you had nothing but what you stood up in. Mind, there’s hundreds in the same boat, but it’s hard for a young girl like yourself, especially wi’ the baby. But when you go along to the centre for your ration card they’ll give you clothing for yourself and nappies and such for the littl’un.’
‘Oh!’ Debbie said. She turned to look down at Pete, some steps below them. ‘Will you have time to come with me to the centre, Pete?’
They reached the top of the stairs and Pete caught up with them as Mrs Roberts threw open the door of the back bedroom. It was a small, neat room with a cot in one corner and a small bed beside it, and Mrs Roberts pointed proudly to the large red cushion which she had placed on the floor for the dog to sleep on. Dusty, who had followed them up the stairs, seemed to approve, for he went over and sniffed the cushion before wagging his tail and grinning at them, with a great show of lolling red tongue and perfect white teeth.
Mrs Roberts laughed. ‘He’ll settle; mongrels what’ve never had much don’t expect much,’ she said. ‘I’ll leave you to stow your goods . . .’ she glanced at the stack of tins which Pete had put down with a relieved sigh as they entered the room, ‘but as soon as you’re ready there’ll be a nice cup of tea and a new-baked scone waiting for you in the kitchen, and I’ve found up an old bottle which I used when my own were small. I got a couple of new rubber teats from me neighbour and I’ve got plenty of conny-onny so you can make the little ’un up a feed as soon as you like.’
Debbie thanked her, and as soon as Mrs Roberts had left the room she perched on the bed and laid the baby, who was still fast asleep, in the cot, whilst Pete sat in the wicker chair by the window.
‘Well, it was like this. Gwen and I came out of the flicks and had just reached the Scottie when Moaning Minnie started and a warden hustled us straight into a shelter . . .’
Debbie told the story slowly and carefully, anxious to get it right and to tell the absolute truth, and it was a good thing she did so for when she came to the bit about her suspicion that the old lady was a gypsy and had stolen the child she remembered something which she had previously completely forgotten. ‘There was an old man, wrapped in a blanket, lying nearby,’ she said excitedly. ‘He knew the old woman, said her name was Mrs O’Shea. He reckoned she lived in one of the courts off the Scottie – I mean the Scotland Road – and took in lodgers. He said some of the girls she took in were – were no better than they should be, so Mrs O’Shea would have brought the baby down to the shelter whilst its mam were working.’
‘So if the baby’s mother is still alive, you’ll find her living in a court off the Scotland Road,’ Pete said thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s some help, at any rate.’ He had been leaning back in the chair, but now he sat forward, elbows on knees. ‘What do you think is best? If you tell the police, they’ll run the mother to earth. Or you can ask around the neighbourhood, see if anyone can tell you where Mrs O’Shea lived.’
‘I’ll try to find her myself first,’ Debbie decided. ‘The courts aren’t a good place to live, but the folk in them are often decent people who help one another. If Baby’s mother is still alive, I’ll find her.’