on.’
The child’s face began to pucker. He was near to tears.
‘Lord, boy,’ said Mrs Berry testily, ‘I shan’t look at you. In any case, I’ve seen plenty of bare boys in my time. Do as you’re told, and I’ll get you an old coat to put on while your things dry.’
She stood a chair near the fire and hung the child’s sodden coat across the back of it. His small sneakers were placed on the hearth, on their sides, to dry.
The boy slowly divested himself of his wet clothing, modestly turning his back towards the old lady.
She thrust more wood upon the fire, looking at the blaze with satisfaction.
‘Don’t you dare move till I get back,’ warned Mrs Berry, making for the kitchen again. An old duffel coat of Jane’s hung there. It should fit this skinny shrimp well enough. Somewhere too, she remembered, a pair of shabby slippers, destined for the next jumble sale, were tucked away.
She found them in the bottom of the shoe cupboard and returned to the boy with her arms full. He was standing shivering by the fire, naked but for the damp towel round his loins.
He was pathetically thin. His shoulder blades stuck out like little wings, and every rib showed. His arms were like sticks, his legs no sturdier, and they were still, Mrs Berry noticed, glistening with water.
‘Sit down, child,’ she said, more gently, ‘and give me that towel. Seems you don’t know how to look after yourself.’
He sat down gingerly on the very edge of the armchair, and Mrs Berry knelt before him rubbing energetically at the skinny legs. Apart from superficial mud, Mrs Berry could see that the boy was basically well cared for. His toe nails were trimmed, and his scarred knees were no worse than most little boys’.
She looked up into the child’s face. He was pale with fatigue and fright, his features sharp, the nose prominent; his small mouth, weakly open, disclosed two slightly projecting front teeth. Mouselike, thought Mrs Berry, with an inward shudder, and those great ears each side of the narrow pointed face added to the effect.
‘There!’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Now you’re dry. Put your feet in these slippers and get this coat on you.’
The child did as he was told in silence, fumbling awkwardly with the wooden toggle fastenings of the coat.
‘Here, let me,’ said Mrs Berry, with some exasperation.Deft herself, she could not abide awkwardness in others. The boy submitted to her ministrations, holding up his head meekly, and gazing at her from great dark eyes as she swiftly fastened the top toggles.
‘Now pull that chair up close to the fire, and stop shivering,’ said Mrs Berry briskly. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
The boy did as he was bidden, and sat with his hands held out to the blaze. By the light of the fire, Mrs Berry observed the dark rings under the child’s eyes and the open drooping mouth.
‘Close your mouth and breathe through your nose,’ Mrs Berry told him. ‘Don’t want to get adenoids, do you?’
He closed his mouth, swallowed noisily, and gave the most appallingly wet sniff. Mrs Berry made a sound of disgust, and struggled from her chair to the dresser.
‘Blow your nose, for pity’s sake,’ she said, offering him several paper handkerchiefs. He blew noisily, and then sat, seemingly exhausted by the effort, clutching the damp tissue in his skinny claw.
‘Throw it on the back of the fire, child,’ begged Mrs Berry. ‘Where on earth have you been brought up?’
He looked at her dumbly and, after a minute, tossed the handkerchief towards the fire. He missed and it rolled into the hearth by the steaming sneakers.
Mrs Berry suddenly realized that she was bone tired, it would soon be one o’clock, and that she wished the wretched child had chosen some other house to visit at such an hour. Nevertheless, duty beckoned, and she girded herself to the task.
‘You know what you are, don’t you?’ she began. The boy shook his head uncomprehendingly.
‘You are a burglar and a
The child’s face began to pucker. He was near to tears.
‘Lord, boy,’ said Mrs Berry testily, ‘I shan’t look at you. In any case, I’ve seen plenty of bare boys in my time. Do as you’re told, and I’ll get you an old coat to put on while your things dry.’
She stood a chair near the fire and hung the child’s sodden coat across the back of it. His small sneakers were placed on the hearth, on their sides, to dry.
The boy slowly divested himself of his wet clothing, modestly turning his back towards the old lady.
She thrust more wood upon the fire, looking at the blaze with satisfaction.
‘Don’t you dare move till I get back,’ warned Mrs Berry, making for the kitchen again. An old duffel coat of Jane’s hung there. It should fit this skinny shrimp well enough. Somewhere too, she remembered, a pair of shabby slippers, destined for the next jumble sale, were tucked away.
She found them in the bottom of the shoe cupboard and returned to the boy with her arms full. He was standing shivering by the fire, naked but for the damp towel round his loins.
He was pathetically thin. His shoulder blades stuck out like little wings, and every rib showed. His arms were like sticks, his legs no sturdier, and they were still, Mrs Berry noticed, glistening with water.
‘Sit down, child,’ she said, more gently, ‘and give me that towel. Seems you don’t know how to look after yourself.’
He sat down gingerly on the very edge of the armchair, and Mrs Berry knelt before him rubbing energetically at the skinny legs. Apart from superficial mud, Mrs Berry could see that the boy was basically well cared for. His toe nails were trimmed, and his scarred knees were no worse than most little boys’.
She looked up into the child’s face. He was pale with fatigue and fright, his features sharp, the nose prominent; his small mouth, weakly open, disclosed two slightly projecting front teeth. Mouselike, thought Mrs Berry, with an inward shudder, and those great ears each side of the narrow pointed face added to the effect.
‘There!’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Now you’re dry. Put your feet in these slippers and get this coat on you.’
The child did as he was told in silence, fumbling awkwardly with the wooden toggle fastenings of the coat.
‘Here, let me,’ said Mrs Berry, with some exasperation.Deft herself, she could not abide awkwardness in others. The boy submitted to her ministrations, holding up his head meekly, and gazing at her from great dark eyes as she swiftly fastened the top toggles.
‘Now pull that chair up close to the fire, and stop shivering,’ said Mrs Berry briskly. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’
The boy did as he was bidden, and sat with his hands held out to the blaze. By the light of the fire, Mrs Berry observed the dark rings under the child’s eyes and the open drooping mouth.
‘Close your mouth and breathe through your nose,’ Mrs Berry told him. ‘Don’t want to get adenoids, do you?’
He closed his mouth, swallowed noisily, and gave the most appallingly wet sniff. Mrs Berry made a sound of disgust, and struggled from her chair to the dresser.
‘Blow your nose, for pity’s sake,’ she said, offering him several paper handkerchiefs. He blew noisily, and then sat, seemingly exhausted by the effort, clutching the damp tissue in his skinny claw.
‘Throw it on the back of the fire, child,’ begged Mrs Berry. ‘Where on earth have you been brought up?’
He looked at her dumbly and, after a minute, tossed the handkerchief towards the fire. He missed and it rolled into the hearth by the steaming sneakers.
Mrs Berry suddenly realized that she was bone tired, it would soon be one o’clock, and that she wished the wretched child had chosen some other house to visit at such an hour. Nevertheless, duty beckoned, and she girded herself to the task.
‘You know what you are, don’t you?’ she began. The boy shook his head uncomprehendingly.
‘You are a burglar and a
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