Johnny Swanson - Eleanor Updale [59]
Johnny felt sick at the thought that his mother might die. ‘Go away,’ he said, trying to push down the flap of the letter box. ‘Leave me alone.’
The reporter pushed back. His voice softened. ‘All I want to do is talk to you about your mother. I’m not going to write anything about her in the paper. I’m not allowed to until the trial. But when it’s over, everyone is going to want to know about her – what she was really like. Only you can tell me that, Johnny. If you don’t tell me the nice things about her, I won’t be able to write them down. I’ll have to rely on people like Miss Dangerfield. Do you want me to go and talk to her again?’
‘No, I don’t. And stop talking as if Mum is going to be found guilty. She didn’t do it. I know she didn’t. Why aren’t you and the police trying to find out who did?’
Now the reporter’s eyes filled the slot in the door. ‘That’s a good point, Johnny,’ he said. ‘Do you have any ideas about who might have done it? I’d love to hear them. Let me in, and we can talk in the warm.’
‘It’s not very warm in here,’ said Johnny.
‘Well, maybe I could give you the price of the coal you’ll burn while you’re talking to me. Perhaps a little more than that. And remember, I can’t help your mother if I don’t know enough about her to make her case. Let me in, Johnny. Please.’
Johnny was on the point of giving way when he heard footsteps coming down the lane. There were at least two men, and they were getting closer. He could hear their voices. They sounded drunk, but he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Then he heard the reporter again. He was shouting now.
‘Get out of it!’ he yelled.
Johnny peered through the letter box. He could see the reporter grappling with the men. He held one of them by the hair while he punched the other, bringing up his knee to hit him in the groin. Then, while that man rolled on the floor in agony, he jabbed his fingers into the other’s eyes and wrenched his arm behind his back. Johnny winced with pain just watching.
The reporter kicked the man on the ground. ‘I said clear off. Keep away or I’ll get you again. And I’ll tell the police too. Do you hear?’
The men swore at him, but they slunk away, back up the narrow alley. The reporter knocked on the door again, and this time Johnny let him in. His lips were swollen and his knuckles were bleeding.
‘Why were those men after you?’ asked Johnny.
‘They weren’t after me, son. They were after you. But you won’t be troubled by them again. Not if they think I’m protecting you. If there’s one thing the war did for the likes of me, it taught us how to fight. Those youngsters didn’t have a chance. But you’d better be careful. Watch where you go. Especially after dark.’
The reporter blotted the blood with his handkerchief. Johnny dragged over the armchair, casually dismantling the pretend Auntie Ada. He climbed up to get the ointment down from beside the Peace Mug on the high shelf. ‘Thank you,’ he said, with his back to the reporter. He felt he owed the man a smear of antiseptic, even if he wasn’t supposed to talk to him.
The reporter took the opportunity to get a conversation going. ‘Are you getting enough to eat?’ he asked, looking around the bare room for signs of food.
Johnny opened a cupboard and showed off the things Hutch had given him since Winnie’s arrest. Everything was in tins: ham, peas, some sweet evaporated milk. ‘I’ve got a bit of cheese too,’ said Johnny. He reached across to the windowsill and took down a little parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper. ‘Do you want some? I’m afraid I haven’t got any bread.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Johnny,’ said the reporter. He put his hand in his coat pocket. ‘I’ve got a couple of apples here. Why don’t we share them?’
So Johnny got a knife and two plates from the side of the sink. At first he was going to give the reporter his mother’s plate – the chipped one with blue roses round the edge – but then he thought he’d keep that one for himself. He didn’t want a