We'll Meet Again by Philippa Carr Page B

sad. You know London has been badly bombed?”
    He stared at me. “Is it my mum … or Aunt Lil … or someone like that?”
    I said: “Charley, it is your father and mother. Your father was home on leave …”
    He stood very still; he had turned very pale and then the color rushed into his cheeks.
    “Charley, you know how dreadful this war is …”
    He nodded. “Does Bert know?” he asked. “’Course he don’t. You told me first.”
    “Yes. I thought you would know how best to tell him.”
    He nodded.
    “Charley, we’re all very sorry.”
    “If we’d’a bin there,” he said.
    “You couldn’t have done anything for them, you know.”
    “Why wasn’t they in one of them shelters?”
    “I don’t know. Perhaps we’ll hear. I suppose sometimes the raids start before people can get there.”
    He nodded again.
    “This is your home now, you know, Charley. Mr. Lewyth wanted you to know that.”
    He was silent for a moment, then he said: “I’d better tell Bert.”
    “You’ll know how to do that.”
    He looked bewildered and, on a sudden impulse, I went to him and put my arms round him. I held him tightly for a few seconds. He did not respond, but I sensed he was glad I did it.
    Then he went off to tell Bert.
    Nanny Crabtree was very gentle with them that night. She called Bert “My Pet” when she addressed him.
    They were strange boys. I guessed their parents had never been demonstrative in their affection. I kept thinking about them throughout the evening and I could not resist going up to their rooms that night when they had gone to bed.
    I looked in at Charley’s first. He was not there. Then I went into Bert’s room. Charley was on Bert’s bed, holding him in his arms. The night-light on the table beside the bed was still on.
    Charley looked at me rather aggressively as I came in.
    I said: “I thought I’d just look in to see how you were feeling.”
    “All right,” said Charley, almost defiantly.
    “And Bert?” I asked. It was clear that Bert was not “all right.”
    “He couldn’t sleep,” said Charley, by way of explaining his presence. “So I just come in to talk to him.”
    Bert started to cry.
    Charley said: “It’s all right. This is our home now. She said so. It’s nice here. Better than Oban Street, now ain’t it?”
    I sat down on the bed.
    “Charley’s right,” I said. “This is your home now. There’s nothing to worry about.” I put my arms round him and, surprisingly, he turned to me. I stroked his hair.
    “There,” I went on soothingly, “it is very sad, and we are all very, very sorry. But you are here now and Charley’s here with you.”
    He nodded and kept close to me.
    Charley lay back on the pillows.
    “It’s all right, Miss,” he said. “I’ll see to him.”
    I nodded, rose, and went quietly out of the room.
    I saw Charley the next day. Bert was not with him. Charley seemed to feel I needed some explanation of Bert’s behavior on the previous night.
    “He’ll be all right,” he said. “It wasn’t much good there. Better here. I tell Bert that. Our old man, he was always drunk and when he was he’d belt us … Bert more than me. And Mum … she was always on at us.”
    “My poor Charley,” I said.
    He looked at me rather scornfully and said: “I was all right and I looked after Bert. But, well, it was his home, like. He’s only little. That’s what it is with him. It was his home, see.”
    I said I did see.
    “It will be better here,” I assured him. “We’ll make sure of that. You like it here, don’t you?”
    “It’s all right,” said Charley grudgingly.
    I thought: We must make sure that it remains so. He was a good boy, Charley. I was not surprised that his little brother thought he was wonderful.
    Mrs. Jermyn was forging ahead with her plan. It had not been difficult to convert the Priory into the kind of home she had visualized, and she already had half a dozen soldiers there. Some of them walked with sticks and there were