Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [2]
As Olwen passed him the hoops, she told him about her new home. ‘We had to move here from Wales,’ she said. ‘My dad lost his job in Swansea, and we had no money at all. So he wrote to an old army friend from the war to see if he could help us out. Lucky for us, he said yes. I don’t know what would have happened to us without him. Anyway, now we’re living at Newgate Farm.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘It’s just outside town. Dad’s supposed to be working there, but he and Mum are both ill. They were sick even before we moved, and the journey just seems to have done them in.’
‘Have you got any brothers and sisters? Are they at this school too? If you’ve got a brother he should defend you against those horrible girls.’
‘Just a sister. She’s a baby. She’s too young for school. And she’s ill too, now. Mum was worried about her this morning. It’s her breathing, see. Maybe the country air doesn’t agree with her. I really should go home and see if she’s any better. It’s a long walk.’
Johnny remembered his job at the shop. ‘I must be getting along too,’ he said.
They ran to the school gate together. ‘Don’t worry about those other girls,’ said Johnny as they split up. ‘They’ll soon get used to you. But if you have any more trouble with them, just come and see me.’ He wasn’t really sure what he was offering to do on her behalf, but Olwen seemed pleased to have found a friend at last.
‘Thank you, Johnny,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then.’
‘Yes. I’ll look out for you in the playground before school.’
The boys were still playing marbles in the street. Albert Taylor made a kissing noise on the back of his hand and nudged one of the others. ‘Little Quacky’s got a pet owl,’ he said in a voice just loud enough for Johnny and Olwen to hear.
Johnny made his way towards Hutchinson’s General Store and Post Office, just down the road from school. Joseph ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson limped out. He wasn’t an old man, not yet thirty-five, and he still had a full head of chestnut hair; but his injured leg slowed him down, and he was getting plump through lack of exercise. His brown overall strained over his belly as he busied himself rearranging a display of apples. Before Johnny even reached the shop, he could tell that Hutch was angry.
‘You’re late,’ said Hutch. ‘I had the papers ready ten minutes ago.’
‘It was PE day. We were up at the sports field.’
‘And I suppose you broke all the records?’ Hutch scoffed, lifting the strap of a large canvas bag across Johnny’s shoulders. He squeezed Johnny’s skinny arm. ‘There’s nothing to you. If it wasn’t for your hair, I wouldn’t believe you were Harry Swanson’s son at all. He was a fine strong man, your dad.’
‘I know,’ said Johnny. ‘I’ve seen a picture of him in his uniform.’
‘Yes, but that would have been taken after the army cut off his golden curls.’ Hutch ran his fingers roughly through Johnny’s springy hair. ‘You’re his boy, all right, even if you are a bit of a shrimp. Now be off with you. There’s folk out there waiting for the racing results.’
Johnny preferred the evening paper round. Not many people took two papers a day, and the bag was lighter than in the morning, when he visited almost all the houses nearby. He ran from one to another, trying to get his job done as quickly as he could. At the last house, Miss Dangerfield’s, he pushed the paper through the letter box, and in his haste he let it clang shut.
‘Can’t you do anything quietly?’ Miss Dangerfield shouted.
Johnny stood on tiptoe and opened the letter box to apologize. A musty, ‘old lady’ smell wafted from inside. He could see Miss Dangerfield advancing along the hallway to pick up the paper: muttering, dressed all in black as ever, and leaning on her walking stick. As she approached the door, Johnny could see how her hair had thinned almost to baldness on the top of her head. She straightened up and caught him looking