The Restless Sea. Vanessa Haan de

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      ‘It’s a proper fine one.’

      Vince narrows his eyes. ‘Thing is, jewels is tricky things to get rid of,’ he says.

      ‘Oh, come on. It’s never stopped you in the past …’

      ‘Give me something to go on, then.’

      Jack describes every pearl and stone in detail. He has taken the bracelet out from beneath his mattress nightly to admire its workmanship.

      Vince is quiet for a moment, as if mulling over the sum in his head. ‘I’ll give you ten pound,’ he says eventually.

      ‘Ten pound?’ says Jack. ‘It’s worth ten times that.’

      Vince shrugs. ‘Maybe through the proper channels …’

      ‘You mean through Stoog?’

      ‘That’s the way it works, my friend.’

      ‘I’m not your friend,’ says Jack, grabbing him by the collar.

      Vince throws his hands out to the sides, twisting on the end of Jack’s fist. ‘It ain’t my fault,’ he says. Jack yanks the neck of the shirt hard before releasing his grip so that Vince yelps, then backs away, rubbing the pinched pale flesh of his neck. ‘What you do that for? You know I got to keep Stoog sweet …’

      ‘I’ll find someone else to take it,’ says Jack.

      ‘You can try. No one else is going to touch it. Stoog’s put the word out.’

      ‘Who does he think he is? Al fucking Capone?’

      Vince shrugs. ‘Someone’s got to be in charge,’ he says, ‘or else the whole system falls apart.’

      Jack feels the anger bubble up inside him. ‘I don’t need the money, anyway,’ he says. ‘I’m doing fine going straight.’

      ‘Looks like it,’ says Vince.

      Jack glares at him for a moment and then spits his contempt on to the ground at Vince’s feet. But Vince is already sidling on down the alley, as slippery as a jellied eel.

      It takes Jack some time to find a pawnbroker who will accept the bracelet and its tenuous provenance. The shops with their three gold baubles hanging above the door are easy to find, and he makes sure it is far enough north not to impact on his patch. The price is pitiful – worse, even, than what Vince offered – but Jack cannot take the risk of the bracelet hanging around the house any longer – and he does not want to have to crawl back to Stoog, cap in hand.

      Carl and Jack take the day off on Sundays, even though Jack could do with the extra work. Betsy and Jack like to meet Carl down by the river at Cherry Garden Pier. It’s become a tradition. The siblings don’t even bother to say goodbye to their mother. She likes to lie in on Sundays. Dead to the world now that she’s toiling all hours. It seems wrong to Jack that his mother is working on site, building a new bridge across the river, of all things. He can’t get used to her leaving in her overalls, walking like a man in those clumpy boots, with that scarf around her head. In the evening her face is smudged with dirt, and she stinks of grease and oil. He wonders what his dad will think when he comes back. He wonders where his dad is. On the Belgium–France border, they’ve been told. But Jack’s not sure exactly where Belgium is.

      Carl is waiting for them in the usual spot. The tide is out, and they roam the muddy beach, searching for treasure among the slimy pebbles and bits of smooth, gnarled wood. Sometimes there are old coins, medieval pins, Roman pottery to be found. Stoog says he once saw a severed hand, but no one believes him.

      They find a place to sit on the driest bit of the shoreline furthest from the water. In the distance Tower Bridge sticks two fingers up at the sky. The river oozes towards the sea. Ships of all shapes and sizes run with it and against it. The dredgers are at work scraping their clawfuls of silt away from the banks and dumping them into the middle of the river. Jack breathes the smell of the dank shore deep into his nostrils.

      Carl throws a stone as far as he can. It plops into the water. ‘My dad’s inquiring about that place at sea school,’ he says. There is an apologetic tone to his voice.

      Jack’s heart sinks, but he can’t blame his friend for wanting to do something about his life.

      ‘You could come?’ says Carl.

      ‘I can’t,’ Jack says, tilting his head in Betsy’s direction. ‘You know my dad wanted me to keep an eye on the girls.’ He tries to raise a smile, but it’s impossible. He is destined to be stuck here, scraping a living while other people travel the world, or fight the Jerries. It isn’t fair.

      ‘Any trouble from Stoog?’ Carl asks.

      ‘I’m steering clear.’ Carl still does not know about the bracelet business, and Jack has managed to avoid Stoog for now. There is an uneasy truce on the streets as the city waits to see what the war has in store for it.

      Carl is silent for a moment, watching Betsy sift through the rubbish on the shore. Her shoes and socks are wet, and her hands are filthy. Her long dark hair is matted like a bird’s nest. ‘Don’t give up now, Jack,’ he says. ‘You’ve worked hard at staying out of trouble.’ Jack does not tell him that he has already started to thieve again. Three wallets in almost as many days. He had forgotten what easy money it was compared to the lugging and scrimping down at the docks. Blackout has its advantages, after all.

      Betsy tugs at Jack’s sleeve.

      ‘Look,’ she says. She holds a piece of coloured glass up to the light. Although it has been polished smooth to a hazy green on the outside, inside it there is an imperfection – a crack – that looks just like a star. ‘It’s for you.’

      ‘Don’t you want to keep it?’

      ‘Promise you won’t send me away like the other kids?’

      ‘I’m not planning on it.’

      ‘Promise.’

      ‘Fine! I promise.’

      ‘Then I want you to have this to remember your promise.’ It’s the most she’s said in weeks. Her solemn brown eyes peer out at him from under the tangle of her hair.

      ‘I don’t need it to remember,’ he says, grabbing hold of her and rumpling the top of her head.

      ‘Take it.’ She presses the glass into his hand until it hurts.

      ‘All right!’ he says. ‘I won’t forget. You’re not going anywhere.’ He pulls her down next to him and gives her a squeeze. They watch the sky darken and lighten as clouds shift across it, chasing each other away from the city. They are each lost in their thoughts.

      It starts to drizzle, blobs of cold on their skin. Jack stands, yanking Betsy up too. ‘Come on,’ he says. The three of them make their way towards the embankment. The rain trickles down their backs and over their gas mask boxes, softening the cardboard and making the doodles on Betsy’s blur at the edges.

      The boys start to run, but Betsy can’t keep up. Carl grabs her СКАЧАТЬ