Page 29 of Don’t Let Me Go

“Jack, are you sure about this?” Charlie asks when he notices where we’re headed.

The moon’s so full and bright in the sky that I can see the worry in his eyes plain as day. It’s no wonder the Germans decided

to have a go at us tonight. It’s the best flying weather they’ve had in months. And they’re certainly making the most of it.

Even here in Mayfair, where we’ve come for our latest bit of adventure, I can still hear the low buzz of their planes as they

drop bomb after bomb on the other side of the river.

“Don’t worry,” I laugh, giving Charlie a reassuring pat on the back. Though he’s not wrong to be nervous.

Strolling through a posh neighborhood like this, with our dirty faces and ratty jackets, the two of us must stick out like

a pair of tarts at a christening. Or we would if anyone was here to see us. But that’s the thing about people with money,

innit? They don’t have to see us. They don’t have to see anything that’s inconvenient. And war is pretty bloody inconvenient.

That’s why when the bombs started falling back in September, anyone who could scrape two shillings together got themselves

out of London. Not that I blame ’em. I’d pop off to my house in the country too if I could. But since I can’t, I reckon I

ought to make the best of a bad situation.

I lead Charlie past a row of tall white-brick homes with big windows and fancy columns.

It’s funny, but just walking down a street like this makes me feel kind of grand.

Important-like. Charlie’s still a bit anxious, but I can tell from the twinkle in his eyes that he’s excited.

He’s always liked fancy things. And since it’s his birthday, I figured I’d treat the lad to a night out.

“Wait here,” I tell him, jumping the waist-high iron gate of the house we’ve stopped at. I scamper down the stone steps of

the servants’ entrance, which, like most servants’ entrances, is conveniently out of sight of the rest of the street.

“All right, it’s clear,” I call back to Charlie, picking up the bottle of lager I left outside the door a few nights earlier.

It’s an old trick one of the Bermondsey boys taught me: If you’re casing a joint, and you want to know if anyone’s about,

you leave a bottle of beer outside the servants’ entrance. If the bottle’s gone when you come back a few days later, you know

someone’s been about the place. But if the bottle’s still there, untouched, then odds are no one’s home.

I pocket the lager as Charlie pads down the stairs, then I get to work trying to budge the door. I’d like to boast that I

have a sophisticated approach to dealing with locks, but the truth is, all I’ve got is my hammer and chisel. Not very subtle,

I know. But between the bombs in the distance and the sirens wailing at the end of the street, I ain’t too worried about making

a ruckus. Four good strikes, and Charlie and I are in.

The air in the kitchen is stale and musty-like. Another sign no one’s been home for a while. Hopefully it’s not been too long a while. I’d like to find something to eat that ain’t spoiled over and covered in mold.

“You check the icebox, I’ll see what’s in the cupboards,” I instruct Charlie as I pull open the pantry doors.

I know it’s not exactly patriotic to be stealing food in the middle of a war.

But the way I see it, if you can afford to toddle off to the country while the rest of us get pounded by the Germans every night, you can afford to make a contribution to the Jack and Charlie Emergency Food Fund. Consider it doing your bit.

“Icebox is empty,” Charlie says, shutting the door.

“Thought it might be.” I slide some tins of veg and a couple of packets of biscuits into my sack. It ain’t much, but we’ve

only just started. “Why don’t you take a look around upstairs, see if there’s anything valuable lying about?”

Most of the time, people fleeing the city have the sense to take anything that’s worth anything. Especially when they don’t

have any idea if their house will be standing when they get back. But every once in a while, you get lucky, and someone leaves

behind a piece of jewelry or a fancy bauble.

Charlie heads up to the first floor while I keep rummaging through the cabinets. It’s pretty slim pickings. Whoever lived

here must’ve cleared out a while ago. In fact, I’m starting to reckon this house is a proper bust when I notice an alcove

under the stairs. I almost missed it in the darkness, but as I light a match I’m pleasantly surprised to spot six bottles

of wine.

That’s more like it. Personally, I’m a Guinness man myself. But these bottles will fetch a pretty price down at the black market

tomorrow. They look old. Expensive-like. We won’t have no trouble finding someone to take ’em off our hands.

I shove the bottles in my sack, then hurry upstairs to show Charlie my score. I can hear him humming (Charlie’s always humming

something), so I follow the tune to the library, where I find him squinting in the moonlight as he tries to read the titles

on the spines of books.

“Look what I found,” I announce, pulling one of the bottles out of my bag.

“Oh, good,” Charlie says, barely glancing my way before turning back to the shelves.

I have to laugh. Here I am, showing him a fortune, or what will be a fortune, and he’s more interested in a bunch of bloody books. But that’s my Charlie. Never met a book he wouldn’t stick

his nose in.

Me, I never really saw the point of books. I mean, they just sort of clutter up a place. But then, I’m not much of a reader,

am I? Not like Charlie. He’d read a new book every week if he could. And he knows all sorts of big words that I’ve never heard

before.

I don’t know if he learned all those words before we met or if he picked them up along the way, but he’s got a pretty impressive

vocabulary when he chooses to use it. Sometimes at night, if we’re staying in a place where there’s a lamp (which ain’t always

the case), he reads to me before bed. I can’t say I always understand what he reads, but I don’t mind listening.

I could listen to Charlie for hours.

“Anything good?” I ask.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Well, don’t take more than you can carry. I’m not lugging a bunch of books across the river. My bag’s heavy enough and we

haven’t even searched the bedrooms. Speaking of which, we should get cracking.”

“I’m looking for Shakespeare,” he says, standing on his tiptoes to reach the topmost shelf. “There was a play my mum used

to read me. It was a comedy about fairies putting spells on people. It was my favorite. I think it’s called Summer Dreams or something like that. It had Dream in the title.”

“Right, well, I’m going to scrounge around upstairs.”

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

He won’t. He’ll still be looking over these books when I’ve turned this entire house over. But it’s his birthday. He might

as well enjoy himself.

Before heading upstairs, I do a quick pass through the dining room and parlor.

I grab a pair of candlesticks that look like they might be silver and a decorative jade elephant that’s the size of my hand.

There are some posh-looking paintings on the wall, sunsets over green pastures and the like, but it’s always a bit of a gamble with art.

I mean, you never know if a picture’s going to be worth something or if it’s just pretty, so best not to bother.

Charlie’s still in the library when I head up to the top floor. There are three bedrooms, which I make quick work of. There’s

no money or jewelry lying about, but I do find an ivory comb, a small box of cigars, and one very special item that’ll make

for a nice surprise for Charlie when we get back to our digs.

As I’m making my way back to the stairs, I decide to pop my head in the loo just to see if it’s as grand as the rest of this

house. It’s not. It’s bloody grander. Or at least grander than anyplace I’ve ever had a piss in before: white gleaming tiles,

gold faucets, an enormous porcelain tub resting on four gold lion paws. I can’t believe the nonsense rich folks’ll spend their

money on. I could feed the whole of East Ham for a week with what it must’ve cost to fix up this hoity pleasure palace.

That being said, it does seem a shame not to take advantage of it.

I try the hot-water tap, and after a minute of ice-cold water pouring out, the temperature starts to warm, bit by bit, until

there’s a lovely layer of steam rising out of the tub.

“Charlie!” I lean my head out the door and shout.

“Yeah?” he calls from downstairs.

“Get on up here!”

“Why?”

“We’re having a bath!”

He doesn’t have to be told twice. If there’s anything Charlie likes more than books, it’s baths. I hear him padding up the stairs, and seconds later he’s standing beside me, hopping excitedly from one foot to the other.

“Gosh!” he gasps, taking in the boat-size tub full of steaming water.

“Come on, then. Strip off.”

I toss my jacket to the floor and start to undo the buttons on my shirt while Charlie kicks off his shoes. Once I’m down to

my birthday suit, I slip into the bath and dunk my head in the near-scalding water that would hurt if it didn’t feel so good.

It’s been months since I’ve had a proper scrub, and as I lean back into the water, I can feel every one of those dirty, grimy

days peel away from my body.

Charlie hops into the other end of the tub, covering himself with his hands as he does. I have to laugh. All these years,

and he’s still the timid sort.

“Here now, how’s this for a birthday?” I ask, giving him a splash.

Charlie lets out a purr of pleasure and sinks himself up to his ears. “It’s amazing, Jack.”

I can hear the air-raid sirens wailing outside like wolves. In the distance, another bomb rocks the city. But here, soaking

in this tub with Charlie, I ain’t never been so relaxed in all my life.

“Jack?” Charlie asks, sitting up in the tub and only half looking at me, the way he does when he’s shy.

“What is it?”

“I was wondering?.?.?.?since it’s my birthday and all...”

“Yeah?”

“Can we?”

I don’t have to ask what he means.