The Toymakers(2)

‘You can quite imagine their excitement. Noah was crying out for victory. Arthur could barely contain his delight. Which one would win out? they started asking. Father! Arthur cried. Come and see! So I did. And what do you think I found?’

On the countertop, the fronts have advanced. Some other customers have drawn near, lured by the commotion. See the woman with the cage of pipe-cleaner birds, the vagrant soldier marvelling at the stuffed dogs lounging in their baskets? Keep a careful eye on them; you will see them again. But, for the moment, bring your gaze back to the battle. The soldiers are almost on top of one another. Three more paces and the fronts will collide; according to the rules of boyhood battles, the last soldier standing will reign supreme.

One pace, and rifles still drawn. Two paces, and the barrels of those rifles hang so closely that the opposing soldiers can see into their beady black eyes. Now, at last, is the moment all have come to see.

Then – the soldiers stop. On each side the soldiers spin their rifles, holding them aloft.

And, on the end of those rifles, hang rippling white flags.

Each figurine lifts a hand to grasp the hand of the soldier it was sworn to kill.

‘Well?’ our friend demands. ‘What is the meaning of it?’

The storekeeper has stooped down to study the soldiers, the forces so interwoven that only a boy of the keenest eye could separate his own from his playmate’s. Our friend is telling her how it happens every time, how Christmas morning has been ruined and reparations must be made – but the storekeeper is silent, and none could miss the beatific look she is trying hard to keep out of her eyes.

These simple toy soldiers, these lifelike recreations on which the Emporium has built its Empire, these playthings that have sat upon the shelves for as long as the store has existed, who have provided generations of boys with untold delights, have, for the very first time, lain down their arms.

‘They have surrendered,’ she whispers – and she doesn’t care at all for the outrage of our friend, for the money she must pluck from the till and return to his hands. The soldiers she is staring at are happy now, and it is the most incredible thing.





IN THE BEGINNING …





SITUATIONS VACANT



DOVERCOURT TO LEIGH-ON-SEA, NOVEMBER 1906


They brought her down to Dovercourt to sell her unborn child.

Mrs Albemarle’s Home For Moral Welfare did not have a sign to proclaim itself outside the door. A wandering eye might have caught the curtains closed during the day, and the neighbours could not overlook the steady stream of girls who passed through its doors, but to passers-by it was just another palatial home off the seafront, a double-breasted affair of Georgian design with whitewashed walls and balconies garlanding its bedrooms. To Cathy, who had known nothing of it even as she was bundled on to the omnibus this morning, the door had a magical effect: by filling her body with dread, it somehow quelled the nausea she had been feeling for days.

They stood in silence outside the door, with seabirds wheeling overhead. Cathy’s mother flicked her finger, and Cathy knew without asking that this was an instruction to knock. She did so tentatively, hopeful she might not be heard. But such good fortune had been in short supply this winter. After some time, the door drew back, revealing a hallway bedecked in floral designs. The woman in the frame was wearing a bright gingham house dress. Her square shoulders and significant chin gave the appearance of a woman unused to idleness – and, indeed, her sleeves were rolled up, her forearms dusted in flour and shreds of dough.

‘You must be Catherine,’ she said, acknowledging Cathy’s mother with barely a flutter of her eyes.

‘Cathy,’ Cathy began. It was the most defiant thing she had said all day.

‘When the time comes for you to reside with us, you’ll be Catherine,’ the woman returned. ‘We deal in propriety here.’ At this, she stepped aside. ‘Come in, Catherine. We’ll have this sorted in a trice.’

The Home had once been a minor hotel, and in the common room the décor had not been changed. Cathy sat alone in the bay while her mother and Mrs Albemarle (for so the woman had introduced herself) spoke about the essentials of Cathy’s future stay. As they were speaking, other sounds drifted through the common room, past the little table with its pile of dog-eared Reader’s Digests and Lilliput magazines. Somewhere, in this building, babies were squalling. There were no words, only shrieks of glee, the bleating of a creature still growing used to the sound of its own voice. Cathy was listening to them so intently that she did not hear Mrs Albemarle calling her name. It was only when her mother added her flinty tones that she turned.

‘This way, Catherine.’

There was no choice but to follow. Mrs Albemarle led her along a back hall and into the cramped office at its end. Here, behind a desk on which sat a tarnished typewriter, Mrs Albemarle took a chair. She had produced a form with black boxes and now she ferreted in a drawer for an ink pot and pen. When none was forthcoming, she settled on a pencil, using it to direct Cathy into a seat.

‘How old are you, Catherine?’

Catherine. That had been what her mother called her as well. Her father had been unable to utter a word.

‘She’ll be sixteen by the time you take her,’ interjected her mother, but Mrs Albemarle lifted an admonishing finger. ‘She must speak for herself, Mrs Wray. If she’s old enough to be in this position, she is old enough to do that.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps you had better …’ Out came the pencil again, to indicate the door. Flushing crimson, Cathy’s mother retreated into the hall.