Free The Cuckoo Child by Katie Flynn Page B

at him. ‘Yes, me old china?’
    ‘Thanks for the buns, missus, only – only I’m more in need of ordinary clothes than food, if you get my meaning,’ Corky said.
    ‘Well, I ain’t got no spare money, but if you want to come back to my house I could fix you up wi’ summat what weren’t a uniform. I’m a ragger, if you know what that is,’ the old lady said.
    Corky was overwhelmed. He said huskily: ‘Oh, missus, I’d be that grateful. If there’s anything I can do for you then I’d do it like a shot.’
    The old woman laughed and handed him the bulging canvas bag she was carrying. It was really heavy and Corky marvelled at the old lady’s strength. It must be her week’s shopping, he told himself, hefting it on one shoulder. ‘Mrs Perkin, that’s my monicker, an’ who’s you, my fine young feller?’
    Corky hesitated. He had no desire to tell anyone his real name yet it seemed downright insulting not to do so when Mrs Perkin had already been so good to him. He decided on a sort of halfway house. ‘Me pals call me Corky and I’d be right glad if you did the same,’ he said. ‘I can’t shake your hand, Mrs Perkin, on account of both mine being full, but I’m happy to meet you. Well, it were a rare bit of luck for me,’ he added honestly. ‘Which orphanage were you in? Somewhere local, were it?’
    The old woman chuckled, but shook her head. ‘Nah. You might not think it ’cos I’m a real Londoner now – a Cockney sparrer you might say. I did get away from the orphanage in the end. It were in Liverpool, what’s a big city . . . oh, miles an’ miles from London. It were harder for me, bein’ a girl, and I was small for thirteen, too – still am, for that matter, though I shan’t see seventy agin – but I were determined, you see? I’d met this young feller who were cabin boy on one of the big liners and though I were only young, I wanted to see him again. He give me his address down London, said if I were ever that way I must call in because his ma were a grand old gal and would help me as soon as she knew I were a friend of her Georgie, so I smuggled myself aboard a coaster and after quite a long while I got to London. I made my way to the East End, to Abbot Road in Poplar, and old Mrs Perkin was everything her son had said, and more. She took me in, helped me to find a job, saw me clothed decent an’ four years later I married Georgie and we set up house in the very same place I’m taking you back to, this minute.’ As she spoke, she had turned into a narrow entry between two rows of houses, and after a few yards she stopped outside a substantial-looking door set in the brickwork. She lifted the latch then waved Corky to go before her. ‘Here you are, ’ome, sweet ’ome! Welcome to number twelve Herbee Place, Bethnal Green. It ain’t much but no one won’t search for you ’ere and the two of us will be snug as bugs in rugs – till you want to move on, of course.’ She fished a key from the lintel above the door, turned it in the lock, and the two of them entered a small but cheerful kitchen. A fire burned in the grate, a black iron kettle steamed on the hob and there was a good smell of cooking which seemed to emanate from the round black pot which hung on a chain over the fire. ‘Where’s you thinkin’ of headin’ for? Got somewhere in mind, have you?’
    Corky shook his head. ‘I don’t know where’s best to go, ’cept that I want to be as far from the Isle of Dogs as possible. I wonder . . . how old do you have to be afore you can become a cabin boy?’
    His hostess had sat herself down in a chair, or rather collapsed into it, but now she turned and gestured to the kettle on the hob. ‘Pull the kettle over the fire, there’s a good lad. I’s dead parched, and dyin’ for a cup o’ char,’ she said. ‘As for cabin boys, I dunno as there’s a pertickler age but I dare say someone might take you on. There’s no fishin’ fleet out o’ the Port o’ London but I