Free The Cuckoo Child by Katie Flynn

strong cotton material which was too hot in summer and much too cold in winter. It was also horribly distinctive, but Corky, glancing at the crocodile of brown-clad boys ahead of him, decided that this was a challenge to ingenuity. If only he had some money, he could buy some sort of garment from someone, he supposed. But the Redwood Grange boys were never given even the smallest sum until they were fifteen, when the powers that be apparently realised that some knowledge of money was essential if they were to survive after leaving the orphanage. Since Corky would not be fifteen for a whole year, he scarcely knew what money looked like, though there were representations of all the coinage, from a farthing to a half-crown, and even pictures of bank notes, in their blue arithmetic books.
    So Corky struggled with his problem as the crocodile approached the recreation ground. When they were walking through the narrow streets, fringed on either side by tottering slums, they often saw lines of washing flapping above their heads. Once I’m away, I can nick an old shirt and some grey trousers off one of those lines, Corky told himself. Once I’m away I’ll be all right, and this here’s my best opportunity because no one, not even old Blister, can keep his eye on fifty boys at once. No use going now, because a gap in the crocodile would stand out like a sore thumb, but when we get to the rec everyone will push forward and fan out and then, if I keep my nerve, I can be away before old Blister’s nose has lost its drip.
    Corky’s partner in the crocodile was a small, wiry boy called Freddie; not a particular friend, merely someone Corky knew vaguely. If Freddie had been a pal, Corky’s escape would have been more difficult; it would have meant involving someone else, and this was always dangerous. A friend would search for you, might even set up a hue and cry unless he were in on the secret, and in Corky’s view, a secret shared was soon common property.
    He was still considering in which direction he should run when they reached the gates and everyone surged forward. Old Blister was at the head of the crocodile and Ratty Evans at the tail, but as they reached the gates Ratty hurried forward, shouting at the boys not to shove, to behave like responsible citizens for once in their lives. Corky glanced around him; no one was even looking in his direction. If he was serious, if he really meant to escape, then now was the time to do it. Without giving himself time to consider, he turned and bent as though searching for something he had dropped, and in this position squiggled against the tide of boys trying to get through the gates, and dived down the nearest alleyway.
    If there had been a shout from behind . . . but there was not. No one had noticed his departure, and even had they done so, Corky believed that his fellow pupils would not have snitched on him. Why should they, after all? So he continued to pad along the alleyway until he emerged on to a main road. He crossed the busy street, trying to look both purposeful yet rather aimless, and now glanced behind him. The alleyway down which he had made his escape was empty, the street before him crowded with strangers. Corky stopped short for a moment, feeling the breath catch in his throat. He was alone, in a great city of which he knew absolutely nothing. Boys at the Grange were never alone, except in the punishment cupboard, and sometimes you were not even alone there, only locked in the dark and denied a meal. For a moment, panic gripped him; he had so little knowledge, so few resources. He was running away all right, as the young reporter had advised, but surely one ran away to something, or someone – to a family or a friend, somewhere where one would be welcomed. The trouble was, he knew so little! It was essential to get as far away from Redwood Grange as possible if he were not to be ignominiously carted back there by some well-meaning bobby. He knew there were ships in