Out of the Blackout by Robert Barnard Page B

little one was on the way. Over the moon she was—in her quiet way, of course. Not demonstrative, because Mother wasn’t so happy about having a baby in the house. But Mary’d always been a real little mother to any stray kids around—a sort of auntie to lots of kids at church, taught Sunday School, and that. And when she had her own! Well, you should have seen her starting off my little David learning the alphabet when he was no age at all! She’d sit with him over a picture book with them great big letters, and she’d say them over with him, having him recognizing words. Tiny scrap of a lad, too! It was a picture, I tell you, to see them sitting together in the armchair, going through their kiddies’ books. It’s one of the last memories I have.’
    â€˜He must have been a . . . bright little boy.’
    â€˜Oh, he was. No question, he was. Couldn’t hardly recognize him as my own.’ Len gave a self-deprecating smile of the sort that really conceals an immense self-satisfaction. ‘He picked up things that quick, you wouldn’t believe. She used to bring him down sometimes to Paddington, when I was on the evening shift, and he’d sit in that ticket office (none of the bigwigs around to object at that time of evening) and he’d watch meselling the tickets. He picked up the system in no time. Learned all the names of the places people went, kept asking his mother to point them out on the map. Sharp as a knife, my little David.’
    â€˜That’s awfully nice,’ said Simon, ‘provided they don’t know it themselves.’
    â€˜Oh, his mother and I wouldn’t have let him get uppitty. Not like those ghastly American children you see on television. Oh no—he was a sweet child, and not at all clever-clever. Everyone fell for him. Of course he looked so nice. His mother kept him spotless, and neat as a new pin. Beautiful little clothes he had, and Mary was that good at mending and patching, like we had to then. There wasn’t a smarter little nipper in all Paddington. I sometimes used to watch him and his mother go off together in the morning—he used to pretend he was old enough to go to school, had his little satchel and all—and they’d go off together, him in his little grey trousers and his little blue blazer which his Mum made for him (he was that jealous of others going off dressed up for school every morning, and him not old enough)—and I tell you, just seeing them my heart leapt up with pride. It did. And if there were air raids, and he couldn’t trot about like that, he used to go with his Mum down to the shelters, and he used to keep the rest of them in stitches.’
    â€˜There are some kids like that,’ said Simon.
    â€˜That’s right. He had all those sharp little comments and questions that kids often have, only his were that humorous! We had a dugout shelter for three or four families along Farrow Street, and he used to call it “the burrow”. “Can we go down the burrow?” he’d say, if there hadn’t been a raid for some days. And when we were all down there, the neighbours’d say it was better than the radio—better than Happidrome. ’
    â€˜It was a funny time for a child to grow up in,’ said Simon. ‘I don’t remember much about it myself, except for the food.’
    â€˜No, well, little David didn’t really understand, of course—took it to be normal, if you take my meaning, because he didn’t remember anything else. And his mother—my Mary—she used to make a joke of it for him. However worried she was herself, she’d always make a joke of things for him. I wasn’t in the ARP then—that was later. I wasn’t found fit for the army—spot of chest trouble, you know—but I did my bit on the Home Front later on. But even in those early days she was worried—naturally,because the