The Orphan Thief. Glynis Peters

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      ‘We’ll register him. The authorities will need to come and inspect the house for safety, no doubt, and this address with be listed as empty, unless … are you living here? I didn’t think to ask,’ the woman said.

      ‘I stay here at times,’ Ruby said, and crossed her fingers behind her back. It was a small white lie. She had stayed there at times, but not overnight, only when her father or mother took their books to Stephen for him to check. He’d helped with their accounts and they had paid him in groceries.

      ‘We’ll leave that part then, and maybe your dad can sort out the necessary. We’re off. Well done for being brave, not easy at your age, but girls are having to grow up fast during this war. Stay safe.’

      As she heard the door click shut the house fell silent and Ruby absorbed what had just happened. Everything seemed like a story from a book. A horror story, and one from which she couldn’t escape. A tear slithered down her face, swiftly followed by more until she could no longer catch her breath between sobs. She’d found sanctuary for at least another night, and this place held memories. Cigarette and pipe smoke from Stephen and her father playing cribbage. Hearing her father laugh when Stephen lost and had to forfeit a few coins, or a dram of whisky. A simple friendship which both men acknowledged through daily actions or a game of cards. Neither of them were sentimentalists, but no one who’d known them could ever doubt their strong bond, which stemmed from their first day at school. Ruby also recalled the scratching sound of Stephen’s pen as he worked through the mathematics of their weekly earnings. And of how he’d helped her understand the muddle of learning her times table. He’d ruffle her hair and chortle out a ‘well done’ when she succeeded with a difficult sum. An uncle, as she’d told the woman? If that was what an uncle did to support a brother or niece, then yes, Stephen was her uncle.

       CHAPTER 4

      20th November 1940

      Pulling the last of the small cupboards across the room back into their rightful place, Ruby stopped and stretched her back. Clearing the kitchen had proven to be quite a task for her, but the dust and soot from outside blew in each time she opened the door. During the day she’d cleaned and scrubbed Stephen’s property, and at night she’d slept through intermittent nightmares and new noises from outside.

      Whilst wiping down the last of the shelves and replacing the few china cups Stephen owned, a babble of voices distracted her and Ruby went to the window at the front of the house, but could see nothing. The drone of aeroplane engines throbbed overhead. She had learned the difference between enemy planes and friendly ones, and she identified these as British. She grabbed the coat she’d found in Fred’s house and rushed out of the back door, locking it behind her. A Fire Warden stood on the pavement and Ruby could see he was watching a crowd of people walking past the entrance of the road. She saw many wore black armbands, and some carried flowers or wreaths. Another two planes flew overhead. Everyone looked skyward.

      ‘What’s going on?’ she asked the warden.

      ‘Burying our dead. Planes are out to stop the Jerries from attacking the cemetery. You should go. Pay your respects. Say a prayer for the dead. Think yourself lucky,’ he said.

      Shocked to think the enemy might attack the dead and their mourners, Ruby shuddered. ‘Not all my dead can be buried. There’s nothing to bury,’ she said, her voice tightening with emotion.

      ‘Oh, God, girl, I’m sorry for your loss. My boy –’ The warden shrugged his shoulders mid-sentence and pinched his lips together.

      Ruby watched his face flush red; she guessed his thoughts: men don’t cry. Put on a brave face.

      She’d heard the words said to her brother so often; she now realised it was true. From now on, she’d put on a brave face. Become a boy inside. Keep her emotions to herself. Hide from the world her thoughts. She’d ‘toughen up’, as her father had often instructed her brother, James.

      ‘My gran’s body was found, but I don’t know what there is to bury. I told them her name. No one said anything about a funeral, and I forgot to think about it. I’m not a good granddaughter, am I? I must go. You are right. Sorry about your son.’

      Fully aware she’d not drawn breath throughout her garbled speech, Ruby ran towards the crowd. She pushed herself into a line of mourners and picked up their solemn pace towards London Road Cemetery. As they stood beside their dead, a soldier in uniform lifted a camera and recorded the despair of the living. Ruby watched him, and wondered how he could bring himself to do such a job. It seemed ghoulish – an uncaring act. She frowned at him as he lowered his camera, and he smiled at her. A soft smile from a handsome face, one which looked neither ghoulish nor uncaring. It puzzled Ruby, for she’d expected an older male to look back at her, not one with youthful features. She moved along with the crowd and, when she glanced his way again, he’d moved away towards the back of the cemetery and out of view.

      The town buried everyone in an open grave of tagged bodies. There was no time to look and see if it was your loved one’s name scribbled on the label in the large vat of beloved bones, huddled together after life, but there was time enough for someone to record their pain. All she could do was remain calm. Her duty was to pay her respects, shed tears and move forward at a snail’s pace. Ruby returned her focus upon the words of the officials performing their last task for over five hundred residents of their city. Her city. This war was beyond cruel. Its actions were vicious, and Ruby pledged there and then to bring back a little joy to her small community, however she could.

      Once home, Ruby composed herself and wrote to Stephen’s sister. She’d put it off, unsure she’d want to learn of her own brother’s death by post, but there was no other way. In true Stephen style, all was in an orderly fashion at his desk and she sat to write in her neatest hand. It took several attempts, but the final version satisfied Ruby enough to hunt out a stamp. She’d seen the postman tramping across town and had been amazed by how soon things were returning to normal practice. Water dribbled through the house pipes once again, and for an hour she’d enjoyed electricity. Every day the city moved one step towards recovery. The clanging of factories repairing themselves gave renewed hope. Warnings to boil the water were called out on regular occasions, and Ruby heeded the instructions – surviving was to be her tribute to her family.

      Rereading the letter for any possible additions, Ruby knew once Stephen’s sister received the letter and arrived she’d be without a roof over her head yet again. The letter was not a comfort to her, but she hoped it would comfort Stephen’s sister to know someone from the city cared about him.

       Wednesday 20th November 1940

       Ruby Shadwell c/o S Peabody, Accountant,

       Garden Cottage,

       Spon St,

       Coventry.

       Dear Mrs McBrae,

       This is a difficult letter to write for several reasons. One, it is to inform you of your brother’s death. You might not be aware of what happened, but we have been attacked in the most vicious way. Fortunately, if that is the correct word to use, he was not killed by a bomb, as my family were in the dreadful attack upon our city. Instead, Stephen’s heart gave out with shock.

       My own family were killed, so I am the only one able to write this letter. Sadly, Stephen has already been buried. The council organised a mass grave СКАЧАТЬ