during the war when labour was short, but when the fighting stopped, the employers could be more choosey. His
one qualification was that of a handyman, or more accurately, a general dogsbody. His big dis qualification for the job in the orphanage was his hatred for kids. But that he kept to himself.
Lots of children’s homes had sprung up after the war – there was a big need for them – but now the local councils were trying to control them, bring them under their own umbrella.
Mr Bailey’s home was too small to contain thirty children. The maximum he should have been allowed was twelve. The old, Victorian house itself was big – but thirty kids? Too many.
Bailey was in trouble.
Fish climbed the stairs, still grumbling, leaving thick billows of cigarette smoke behind to disperse into the shadows. They’d better all be asleep, he told himself. No, that was too much
to ask for: the older ones would still be awake larking about. He was in no mood for any monkey business tonight, though. They’d feel the back of his hand around their chops if they gave him
any nonsense. He wanted to be back downstairs in time for Wilfred Pickles on the wireless at half-nine.
To his surprise, the children in the first bedroom he poked his head into were all asleep – or pretending to be. They were all girls in there, thirteen packed into one large room, their
ages ranging from five to fourteen. The boys – a right unruly bunch who sounded like the bloody Mau Mau sometimes – were on the floor above; next door was the nursery. Bailey thought
that having them close to the infants would keep the boys quiet at night. That was a laugh: many a night he’d heard Bailey or his wife pounding up the stairs to stop the noisy skirmishes
going on in this room. Still, there was no ruckus tonight, he mused as he trod the stairs to the second storey. That, of course, was because they knew he was in charge. They didn’t
mess about with him. He dealt out a few good hidings with the threat that they would get worse if they tell-taled to Mr Bailey. He chuckled as he remembered getting hold of one of the little
baskits – saucy little fucker – and dangling him over the banisters by his legs. Said he’d drop him if he didn’t behave. Funny thing was – although not funny at the
time because he’d almost given himself a heart attack – he nearly had dropped the blighter, the kid had screamed and squirmed so much. It was lucky Bailey and his missus had been
out that night as well. Mind you, there’d been no more trouble from that kid again. He silently pushed open the door to the older boys’ dormitory, half-hoping to catch one or two
of them out of bed so he could mete out some punishment. He scowled in disappointment when he saw they were all in their places. Fish stood there for several moments waiting for the sound of
giggling or whispering; all he heard were a few nasal snores.
The light in the hallway was dim: Bailey was always skimping on electric and coal. He even had bloody inquests on the gas bills. He probably wouldn’t have had a light up here at all if the
kids didn’t have to use the lavatory during the night. He shuffled along the landing, his breathing heavy after the long climb up the stairs. The door to the nursery was slightly ajar; it
always was, just in case one of the brats started bawling during the night. There was ten littl’uns in there, boys and girls, their ages from two to five years old. Whiney little baskits.
Fish stopped when he heard voices. Or was it just the one voice? He listened outside the door.
Baby talk. One of the nippers was having a right old conversation with himself. Fish poked his nose through the doorway. He could barely see the outlines of cots and small beds in the gloom, but
the voice was coming from a position opposite the door. He pushed the door open wider to allow more light into the room.
He was surprised when he saw who it was talking.
The boy sat upright in his bed,
one qualification was that of a handyman, or more accurately, a general dogsbody. His big dis qualification for the job in the orphanage was his hatred for kids. But that he kept to himself.
Lots of children’s homes had sprung up after the war – there was a big need for them – but now the local councils were trying to control them, bring them under their own umbrella.
Mr Bailey’s home was too small to contain thirty children. The maximum he should have been allowed was twelve. The old, Victorian house itself was big – but thirty kids? Too many.
Bailey was in trouble.
Fish climbed the stairs, still grumbling, leaving thick billows of cigarette smoke behind to disperse into the shadows. They’d better all be asleep, he told himself. No, that was too much
to ask for: the older ones would still be awake larking about. He was in no mood for any monkey business tonight, though. They’d feel the back of his hand around their chops if they gave him
any nonsense. He wanted to be back downstairs in time for Wilfred Pickles on the wireless at half-nine.
To his surprise, the children in the first bedroom he poked his head into were all asleep – or pretending to be. They were all girls in there, thirteen packed into one large room, their
ages ranging from five to fourteen. The boys – a right unruly bunch who sounded like the bloody Mau Mau sometimes – were on the floor above; next door was the nursery. Bailey thought
that having them close to the infants would keep the boys quiet at night. That was a laugh: many a night he’d heard Bailey or his wife pounding up the stairs to stop the noisy skirmishes
going on in this room. Still, there was no ruckus tonight, he mused as he trod the stairs to the second storey. That, of course, was because they knew he was in charge. They didn’t
mess about with him. He dealt out a few good hidings with the threat that they would get worse if they tell-taled to Mr Bailey. He chuckled as he remembered getting hold of one of the little
baskits – saucy little fucker – and dangling him over the banisters by his legs. Said he’d drop him if he didn’t behave. Funny thing was – although not funny at the
time because he’d almost given himself a heart attack – he nearly had dropped the blighter, the kid had screamed and squirmed so much. It was lucky Bailey and his missus had been
out that night as well. Mind you, there’d been no more trouble from that kid again. He silently pushed open the door to the older boys’ dormitory, half-hoping to catch one or two
of them out of bed so he could mete out some punishment. He scowled in disappointment when he saw they were all in their places. Fish stood there for several moments waiting for the sound of
giggling or whispering; all he heard were a few nasal snores.
The light in the hallway was dim: Bailey was always skimping on electric and coal. He even had bloody inquests on the gas bills. He probably wouldn’t have had a light up here at all if the
kids didn’t have to use the lavatory during the night. He shuffled along the landing, his breathing heavy after the long climb up the stairs. The door to the nursery was slightly ajar; it
always was, just in case one of the brats started bawling during the night. There was ten littl’uns in there, boys and girls, their ages from two to five years old. Whiney little baskits.
Fish stopped when he heard voices. Or was it just the one voice? He listened outside the door.
Baby talk. One of the nippers was having a right old conversation with himself. Fish poked his nose through the doorway. He could barely see the outlines of cots and small beds in the gloom, but
the voice was coming from a position opposite the door. He pushed the door open wider to allow more light into the room.
He was surprised when he saw who it was talking.
The boy sat upright in his bed,
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