conversational, as if he can see right through the wood. Jim starts to say something, but Arthur raises a finger and the boy flinches. They listen to the scrape of the policeman's feet in the yard, the creak of the gate.
"POWs!" Jim bursts out as soon as it's quiet. "That's who it's for!" He looks at them triumphantly, as if the news somehow excuses everything.
"What happened?" Esther asks.
"We broke in," he says, "and we found a cell block. You know, for solitary confinement. That's how we knew the secret!"
She tries to look suitably surprised, but she can see he's disappointed. He looks over her shoulder. "POWs, Mr Evans."
"But how did you get caught?" Esther insists.
His face clouds for a second. "Oh, the others," he says, trying to sound breezy. "They locked me in one of the cells for a joke and forgot to come back."
" Duw! " She crouches down to get a better look at his head,
but he twists away.
Behind her, Arthur has started to laugh thinly and she stares at him.
"Prisoners of war," he says, and she knows it's taken him a moment to work it out in English, too proud to just ask. "And all those happy fools down the pub," he goes on in Welsh, "hoping for some glorious part in the English war. What a slap in the face!" He shakes his head. "Glad you could join us," he adds, looking her up and down, taking in her rumpled clothes.
"I thought I should be decent," she tells him awkwardly.
He's in slippers and a nightshirt himself, his calves below the hem corded with muscle, the veins binding them like blue twine. The nightshirt is so old it's gone grey, and Esther, so rarely up in the morning before him, can't remember the last time she's seen him in it.
"I could boil that for you," she blurts out, and he gives her a
puzzled look.
"You just see to his head," he tells her, suddenly weary, pushing past on his way back to bed. "That's your job."
She sits Jim at the table, puts water on to warm, fetches a towel, then sets the lamp beside him. "It doesn't hurt," he tells her, but pulls back when she reaches for him.
"Hold still."
She lifts the matted hair off his forehead--"Ow!"--and clucks her tongue. It's not a bad wound, he's come back with worse from the schoolyard, but there's a nasty-looking scrape at the centre of the bruise where the skin is broken--by a ring? she wonders, a watch?--and moving his hair has opened it again. She stands swiftly, drawing in her breath as a dotted line of blood begins to well up. She feels her tears brimming, turns quickly and stretches for the shelf above the sink, for bandages and the bottle of Mercurochrome.
"Do we have to?" he asks as she drapes the towel round his neck. Then, picking up on her solemnity: "I'm wounded, aren't I?"
She nods, unable to speak. The boy eyes the bottle warily, takes the corner of the towel and draws it across his mouth.
"For the pain," he says, biting down as she begins to clean the cut.
She hadn't wanted another evacuee when the Blitz had started and there'd been a second wave of them, though Arthur had said they could use some help around the place. She'd resisted until the summer of '41, after Liverpool had been shattered and a belated trickle of kids began to arrive. Arthur had shaken his head in disgust when she'd come back from the station with Jim in tow. At nine, he was too small to be much use on the farm (the reason why Rhys had been hired
the next summer), but at least Arthur wasn't hardhearted enough to make her take him back. "Don't know what you were thinking. He's like a stray," he told her. "If you want to
take pity on him, well and good, but he's your lookout. You'll have to see to him and make up for what he can't do about the place."
She pauses in her cleaning and tells Jim to stop pulling faces. "It can't hurt so badly. I'm being very gentle."
He opens his eyes. "Shows how much you know," he says. "It's agony." Then, hopefully, "Is it finished?"
She shakes her head, reaches for the Mercurochrome, and he bunches his face
"POWs!" Jim bursts out as soon as it's quiet. "That's who it's for!" He looks at them triumphantly, as if the news somehow excuses everything.
"What happened?" Esther asks.
"We broke in," he says, "and we found a cell block. You know, for solitary confinement. That's how we knew the secret!"
She tries to look suitably surprised, but she can see he's disappointed. He looks over her shoulder. "POWs, Mr Evans."
"But how did you get caught?" Esther insists.
His face clouds for a second. "Oh, the others," he says, trying to sound breezy. "They locked me in one of the cells for a joke and forgot to come back."
" Duw! " She crouches down to get a better look at his head,
but he twists away.
Behind her, Arthur has started to laugh thinly and she stares at him.
"Prisoners of war," he says, and she knows it's taken him a moment to work it out in English, too proud to just ask. "And all those happy fools down the pub," he goes on in Welsh, "hoping for some glorious part in the English war. What a slap in the face!" He shakes his head. "Glad you could join us," he adds, looking her up and down, taking in her rumpled clothes.
"I thought I should be decent," she tells him awkwardly.
He's in slippers and a nightshirt himself, his calves below the hem corded with muscle, the veins binding them like blue twine. The nightshirt is so old it's gone grey, and Esther, so rarely up in the morning before him, can't remember the last time she's seen him in it.
"I could boil that for you," she blurts out, and he gives her a
puzzled look.
"You just see to his head," he tells her, suddenly weary, pushing past on his way back to bed. "That's your job."
She sits Jim at the table, puts water on to warm, fetches a towel, then sets the lamp beside him. "It doesn't hurt," he tells her, but pulls back when she reaches for him.
"Hold still."
She lifts the matted hair off his forehead--"Ow!"--and clucks her tongue. It's not a bad wound, he's come back with worse from the schoolyard, but there's a nasty-looking scrape at the centre of the bruise where the skin is broken--by a ring? she wonders, a watch?--and moving his hair has opened it again. She stands swiftly, drawing in her breath as a dotted line of blood begins to well up. She feels her tears brimming, turns quickly and stretches for the shelf above the sink, for bandages and the bottle of Mercurochrome.
"Do we have to?" he asks as she drapes the towel round his neck. Then, picking up on her solemnity: "I'm wounded, aren't I?"
She nods, unable to speak. The boy eyes the bottle warily, takes the corner of the towel and draws it across his mouth.
"For the pain," he says, biting down as she begins to clean the cut.
She hadn't wanted another evacuee when the Blitz had started and there'd been a second wave of them, though Arthur had said they could use some help around the place. She'd resisted until the summer of '41, after Liverpool had been shattered and a belated trickle of kids began to arrive. Arthur had shaken his head in disgust when she'd come back from the station with Jim in tow. At nine, he was too small to be much use on the farm (the reason why Rhys had been hired
the next summer), but at least Arthur wasn't hardhearted enough to make her take him back. "Don't know what you were thinking. He's like a stray," he told her. "If you want to
take pity on him, well and good, but he's your lookout. You'll have to see to him and make up for what he can't do about the place."
She pauses in her cleaning and tells Jim to stop pulling faces. "It can't hurt so badly. I'm being very gentle."
He opens his eyes. "Shows how much you know," he says. "It's agony." Then, hopefully, "Is it finished?"
She shakes her head, reaches for the Mercurochrome, and he bunches his face
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