Now the War Is Over Read Free

little startled to see Melly on her own.
    ‘Not with your mother today then?’ she asked. She was a widow, thin but cheerful and kindly. Lowering her voice, she said, ‘Has she had it yet?’
    ‘No, not yet,’ Melly said. ‘But she’s a bit poorly.’ She pulled the ration books out of her pocket and asked for their groceries – a loaf, some lard, bacon,
tea and cheese. The lady was cutting cheese in her deliberate way when a commotion began outside.
    ‘Oh, Lord love us, what’s that?’ Mrs Bracken said, looking up, the cheese wire poised in her hand.
    Melly could see the boys outside and she rushed to the door. After those horrible ladies her senses were alert for trouble. The group of lads had gathered right up close to the shop now and they
were all round Tommy, jeering and elbowing each other.
    Melly froze on the shop step. There were three boys, but to her they felt like a huge crowd. They were bigger than her, older, twelve or thirteen, and she did not recognize them – one
ginger, two mouse-haired – nothing special about them. They were egging each other on, shouting and braying. Two of them had hold of the chair.
    ‘Look at this cripple carriage! It’s a go-kart! Come on, let’s see how fast it goes!’
    ‘Want a ride, do yer?’ the third shouted right in Tommy’s face. They grabbed the arms of the chair and jostled it away from the wall. Melly saw Tommy’s face. His pale,
usually sweet features were frozen in helpless terror.
    ‘Race yer. Look at ’im – ’e can’t even talk!’
    Melly felt as if she was going to explode. There was no time to think, she just started shouting. ‘Stop it!
Stop it
– that’s my brother. Gerroff him –
you’re hurting him!’
    They were shaking the chair, rocking it from side to side. Tommy was spluttering, trying to say something and struggling in the chair. She could see he was terrified that they were going to
charge down the street with it and tip him out. His eyes were dark and enormous. She ran round the boys, shouting and trying to get hold of the chair. One of them elbowed her viciously. Winded, a
sharp pain in her chest, she reeled away, her rubber shoes slipping on the cobbles so that she almost fell.
    ‘Help!’ she shouted, crying now. ‘They’re hurting my brother!’
    People began to take in what was happening: the boys’ jeering, their nasty expressions, the way they had pulled the chair away from the wall, fighting between each other to have control
over it. Melly saw a man set out across the street towards them, an arm raised.
    But before he could get there, another figure hurled itself into the fray, someone who appeared to Melly like a rushing whirlwind of salvation. A blonde-haired lad, bigger than any of the three
bullies, flung himself at them.
    ‘Get off of ’im!’ he bawled. He hauled them back from Tommy’s chair, giving one of them such a shove that he landed on his backside in the gutter, face gurning with pain.
‘You get off – leave ’im alone! What’s ’e ever done to you, yer cowing little buggers?’
    This avenging lightning streak, Melly now saw to her amazement, was Dolly’s third son Reggie Morrison. Reggie was nearly seven years older than her and she remembered him playing with her
when they were much smaller, pushing her about in a little cart when she could barely walk, and playing marbles. But Reggie was so grown up now at the grand age of sixteen that he had nothing to do
with her these days.
    The third boy attempted to fight back, but Reggie seized him by the shoulders and shoved him up against the wall.
    ‘Wanna fight me, do yer?’ he demanded, pushing his face close up to him. The boy shook his head. The second lad, having been pushed away, hovered about, looking as if he was
considering running away.
    ‘Hey – lads, lads!’ The man from across the road had now reached them, still holding his arm up as if directing the traffic.
    Reggie stood, hands on hips, panting. He was usually