It was amazing how fast everything happened after that. Not only the Craddocks, but a crowd of men, many of whom Corky had never set eyes on before, turned up in Herbee Place. They formed a human chain and stuff came down from the back bedroom with amazing speed, though everything was prudently covered in dust sheets. The Craddock van was filled three times before the room was empty and it was all done in the space of an hour, though Corky had no idea where the goods had gone and found he did not want to know either. He who knows nothing can tell nothing, he thought, though he did point out to Mrs Perkin that behind every twitching curtain in Herbee Place was a pair of interested eyes, and in the nature of things those eyes would possess a nose which could smell out trouble and a mouth which could gabble to the rozzers about it.
Mrs Perkin, however, gave a contemptuous laugh. ‘They won’t grass,’ she assured him. ‘For one thing, they’re all my friends, and for another, the rozzers is everyone’s enemy. Everyone’s hand is against ’em. Besides, our neighbours don’t want to get up one morning and find their house has been burned to the ground, or their winders have been knocked out, and my Wilf’s a man of influence.’
Corky was forced to agree that she was probably right, but then another thought struck him. ‘My room’s too empty,’ he said. ‘Them chaps took everything and that ain’t natural, missus, honest it ain’t. Wouldn’t it be better if we could get a few things from the shop – things that are legal, like – so that the rozzers could see that the room had been used for storage? It ’ud look more – more natural with a few things scattered around, things which are really kosher.’
Mrs Perkin stared at Corky whilst a slow smile spread over her face. ‘Corky, you’re worth your weight in perishin’ gold,’ she said, almost reverently. ‘Go down to the parlour and fetch up a few items. They’re all legit.’
When he had finished, Corky came down to find Mrs Perkin with a small carpet bag in one hand, awaiting him. She hustled him towards the back door, saying as she did so: ‘And now you’d best be off, lad. I dunno where you’re going but it ’ad better be as far away from ’ere as you can get. Don’t go thinkin’ you can stay in London, because the rozzers will winkle you out to give evidence against my boy, and of course they’ll guess I were warned when they see the back bedroom so I reckon you’d be done for aidin’ and abettin’, if not worse. You didn’t like that there orphanage you was in but I reckon you’d find Borstal a good deal worse.’
Corky had guessed that he would not be able to stay with the Perkins, would have to move on, but had managed to put it to the back of his mind whilst so much was happening. Now, he took the carpet bag from his hostess and tried to grin, though he guessed it must be a pretty wobbly effort.‘’S awright, Mrs Perkin, I always meant to move on one of these days,’ he muttered. ‘But I don’t know as I can get out o’ London today, an’ – an’ – I dunno where I can sleep, unless I can kip down on the Underground, of course. ’Cos it’s still raining cats and dogs and I don’t want to die of pewmonia.’
Mrs Perkin laughed and pinched his cheek. ‘You’ve saved us Perkins from an ’orrible fate an’ I mean to see you don’t suffer from it,’ she said firmly. ‘I packed all your stuff in this carpet bag – there weren’t much – and I added a nice little sum to that purse of money you’ve been saving. What’s more, there’s a packet of ham sandwiches, an’ a packet of cheese ones, three apples and a wedge o’ my rich fruit cake. So I reckon you won’t starve for a day or two. You’d best make your way to one of the main line stations and buy a ticket . . . oh, to anywhere you fancy. Liverpool Street’s the nearest; can you remember how to get there? But if you can’t, anyone will tell you the way.’ By this time they were in the cobbled yard and Corky saw that his old friend’s lip was trembling and that there were tears in her eyes. ‘You’ve been like a son to me . . . well, mebbe more like a grandson,’ she said huskily. ‘I’ll never forget you, young Corky, but – but you can’t stay. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Corky nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. It won’t do for the pair of us to stand here crying our eyes out, he told himself, and even as the thought entered his head the rain, which had slowed to a light drizzle, started in earnest once more. He was just thinking it was as well, since it made the parting easier, when he heard a thundering knock on the front door. Hastily, Mrs Perkin gave his hand a squeeze and turned towards the house. ‘Off wi’ you, and don’t linger,’ she hissed. ‘Write me a letter so’s I know you got away okay. Don’t forget, Liverpool Street’s the nearest.’ And with that she disappeared inside the house and Corky could hear her muttering as she made her way to the front door.
Corky went down Herbee Place and on to Bonner Street. To get to Liverpool Street Station he should have turned left, but when he glanced in that direction he saw a large policeman, helmeted head lowered against the driving rain, turning ponderously towards him. He looked to the right and saw no one, so set off at a brisk run, trying to hold the carpet bag away from his legs, though without much success. As yet, the hunt for himself had not begun. Once on to Old Ford Road, wet as a drowned rat already, Corky stopped a minute to consider. Only one person in the whole world knew where he was heading and that was Mrs Perkin, but suppose the police used their common sense? If Mrs Perkin mentioned a railway station, it would naturally be Liverpool Street, and though he was sure that, for her own sake and that of her son, she would never give him away, mistakes do happen. He might get to Liverpool Street Station, by either hopping on a bus or slogging on in the rain, and find a welcoming committee of grinning coppers, eager to carry him to prison, or to Borstal, whichever was the worse.
On the other hand, he knew the way to Euston Station extremely well because there were several small shops in the area from which Wilf had both bought and sold. Yes, he could make his way there easily. By the time he was on Old Ford Road, however, the rain had begun to defeat him and when a bus swished up beside him, its destination board proclaiming that it went to Euston, he jumped aboard gladly. The bus was already crammed with wet and depressed passengers so he had to remain on the platform, and sat down on his wet carpet bag before he remembered the food inside and hastily stood up again. He paid his penny and in no time, it seemed, was descending into the rain once more. He marched, resolutely, under the great arch into the sooty station, keeping a weather eye out for policemen, but saw no one in uniform, save for porters and other railway officials. There was a short queue at the ticket office and he joined it, his mind still full of the events of the day. Every time he thought about Mrs Perkin and Herbee Place, his chest tightened and he felt a horrible hollow feeling inside. She had been so good to him! He knew that she had used him for her own ends but knew, also, that a genuine liking had grown up between them. The two of them had shared many little jokes, and she had been concerned for his welfare, had appreciated his good points, and had been interested in how he spent each moment of his day. He had striven to please her and she, in her turn, had striven to please him. She had cooked his favourite food, introduced him to many new dishes, and had talked to him of the old days, when she was a girl. He had told her about the orphanage, about their rare treats, the visits to the Isle of Dogs to play football on the old Millwall ground, and the constant comings and goings on the docks, which the boys watched eagerly whenever the opportunity came their way and which was the reason, Corky supposed, that nine out of ten of the boys wanted to go to sea as soon as they were old enough.
Edging gradually forward, Corky thought about Wilf’s shop and the treasure chest of wonderful things he had grown accustomed to whilst he was with the Perkins. When he lived in the orphanage, he had never heard the word ‘antiques’, let alone seen one. His life had been full of deal tables, scratched and kicked door panels, and narrow iron cots with thin straw mattresses. Ugliness had surrounded him and he had not even known these things were ugly because he had had nothing with which to compare them. Now, he knew the beauty of old, well-polished furniture which had been made with such loving attention that men paid large sums to possess it. He appreciated the delicacy of the porcelain figures in the china cabinets – his mind gave an uneasy wriggle at the thought of china cabinets – and he had even begun to be able to tell the good from the bad. A Dresden shepherdess with each finger crowned by a tiny, perfect nail might look, at first sight, similar to the fake, but the Perkins, and now Corky himself, could tell the difference all right.
Then there were people. You might say the Perkins were ordinary people, perhaps not even very nice people, but they had liked Corky, had found him useful, amusing, and pleasant to be with; so different from his former gaolers – he thought of them as gaolers now – the men and women who had ruled his life with an iron rod. He remembered angry faces, and indifferent ones, but never interested or sympathetic expressions, though he did remember that the reporter who had first given him the idea of escape had been both interested and sympathetic. However, all that was behind him now. When he had left Redwood Grange, he had known nothing about normal family life. Now, thanks to Mrs Perkin, he knew that it was a wonderful thing, something he would not willingly do without. Wherever he ended up, he would find himself a family, and when he did so . . .
‘Next! C’mon, boy, don’t stare at me like a landed fish with your gob wide open. Where d’you want to go?’
It was the official, staring at him through the glass of the little ticket window, and drumming his fingers impatiently upon his stout wooden counter. Corky gulped. What a fool he was! He had simply stood in the queue, letting his mind wander, without the vaguest idea of where the trains went, let alone where he himself would like to go. Without thinking twice, he heard his own voice saying: ‘Single to Liverpool Street, mister,’ and realised, with horror, that this was just what he did
not
want. Besides, he doubted that it was possible to get a train from one London station to another.
The official, however, did not seem at all surprised. ‘One single to Liverpool Lime Street,’ he said, sorting out a ticket. ‘Next one’s the five fifty, platform three. I take it you’re a half. That’ll be . . .’ He named a sum and pushed a pink square of cardboard nearer the window, though he kept one finger on it whilst Corky opened his carpet bag, got out the little wash leather purse with the cord round its neck that Mrs Perkin had given him for his savings, and fished out the requisite sum. Only then did the official shove the ticket under the glass and take the money, calling ‘Next’ as he did so. Corky moved hastily away from the window, shoving his purse right to the bottom of the carpet bag before closing it firmly once more. Then he gazed around him at the vast concourse, the hurrying people and the big clock. It was a quarter past five. Assuming the man in the ticket office meant that the train left at 5.50, he had plenty of time to find the right platform and make sure he really would not end up at Liverpool Street Station. It would mean asking questions and Corky did not wish to leave a trail for the rozzers to follow, but he thought he was probably safe enough here amongst such an enormous number of people.
He looked around carefully, saw a fat little woman with curly white hair sitting on a bench, and went and sat next to her. The old woman was eating a sandwich so Corky opened his bag once more and produced an apple. After a couple of bites, he turned to his companion. ‘Excuse me, missus, but I’ve been told by my uncle to buy a ticket for a place called Liverpool Lime Street. He’s going to meet me there. Is that – that far from here?’
‘Well, it’ll take about four hours on the train; dunno if you’d call that near or far,’ the woman said equably. ‘I’m going to Liverpool myself, though I’m only staying there one night. Then it’s on the ferry bound for Dublin and a whole week’s holiday with me daughter.’
‘O-o-o-oh!’ Corky said, on a long sigh. What a fool he was! Mrs Perkin had talked and talked about Liverpool, and her life there before her parents’ death, after which she had been sent to an orphanage. She had talked of the docks and the great ships, and the thousands of Irish people who had come across to the city at the time of the potato famine. She had told him of the great River Mersey and the huge buildings which lined its banks and were paid for, she had said disapprovingly, by money from blackbirding, which was the local name for the slave trade. He even remembered her mentioning Liverpool Lime Street, the station from which she had set out when she had run away to find the Perkin family.
He turned and beamed at the old woman. ‘My uncle says he’ll meet the train but I weren’t able to tell him which one I’d be catching, so I’ll mebbe book myself into lodgings for the night and then make my way to – to . . .’ His mind searched desperately for a street name and caught, thankfully, at one Mrs Perkin had mentioned. ‘. . . St Domingo Road, where me uncle and aunt live.’
He hoped he had not chosen a road so near the station that lodgings would be out of the question, but the old woman merely said: ‘I dunno nothing about St Domingo Street, or Road, or whatever, but I know there’s decent lodging houses down by the docks. Only, I dunno whether they’d take a kid by hisself.’ She looked at him narrowly. ‘They might think you was runnin’ away; you aren’t, are you?’
‘No indeed; I’m going to visit my aunt and uncle so I can look after my young cousins – they’ve half a dozen kids – because the family is moving to a bigger house,’ Corky said, improvising wildly. ‘You know what it’s like, missus; as you get more kids, you need more space. I’m from a big family myself, so I know all about living cramped up. And another thing: I’m keen to go to sea as a cabin boy as soon as I’m old enough, and my Aunt Aggie told me Liverpool had a lot of transatlantic liners what needs a good many cabin boys, so when my aunt and uncle don’t need me any more I’ll see if I can get myself a job.’