Street Child by Berlie Doherty

edged her box chair closer and at last managed to kick Jim awake. He sat up slowly, puzzled to find himself in this strange, smoky room with a toothless old woman peering down at him. Then he remembered where he was. He was in Rosie’s cottage, and he was safe.
    The old woman nudged him again with her boot and nodded towards the half-eaten loaf that was sticking out of his pocket. She stretched out her clawed hand and Jim broke off a piece of bread and held it out to her, afraid of her glaring eyes and her restless, chewing mouth. She scowled at him and pecked at his hand, then opened her mouth wide. Jim broke off a bit of bread and fed it to her, and like a greedy bird she pecked and waited, and he fed her bit by bit. Sometimes, when she was slow, he bit a piece off for himself.
    When she nodded off to sleep he wandered outside and sat by the river. It was as busy as a market, with sailing ships ploughing their way through the mist, and barges nudging in and out of the wharves. Far out he could just make out the bulk of a paddle steamer, huge and wheezing. He wondered how far the river went, and what it would be like to be on one of those boats, rocking in the wake of the steamers.
    When Rosie came home it was nearly dark again. Jim stayed outside all the time, a little afraid of the spitting grandmother and her greedy, pecking mouth. Quite a few people seemed to go into the cottage, mostly men and boys, and there came from time to time the sound of arguing and shouting. There was an old man who seemed to come and go a lot, and who did most of the shouting whether there was anyone else with him or not. When he wasn’t shouting he was laughing to himself, in a dry, coughing way that wasn’t laughing at all. Jim wondered if he was Rosie’s grandfather.
    It was cold out on the bankside, but Jim didn’t want to go back into the cottage. He watched some boys playing in the snow and tried to join in, but they ran away as soon as they saw him. When at last he saw Rosie coming he ran to her. The tray that she had strapped to her shoulders was half-empty. She dragged her feet as she walked.
    ‘Well, Jim,’ she said, ‘I’ve no time to talk to you now. I’ve food to cook for my grandfather and my uncles, as they’re kind enough to give me a home.’ She stopped by the cottage. ‘And I can’t ask you in. Grandfather would throw you to the gulls, and me with you, if he thought you were intending to stay. There’s too many of us. Do you understand?’
    Jim stared up at her.
    ‘Don’t look at me like that, Jim,’ she said. ‘You don’t know my grandfather, or you wouldn’t look at me like that. But I’ll show you where you can sleep tonight, if you promise to be careful.’
    She took him down to the shed. ‘Will you be all right here?’ she asked. ‘It’s cold, and it don’t half stink with all that rot on the river, but it’s dry enough.’
    ‘I like it,’ said Jim. ‘I can pretend I’m on a boat, Rosie.’
    ‘So you can.’ She stood at the door and looked out at the darkening water as if she’d never seen it before, her eyes narrowing. ‘Like to sail away, would you, Jim? I know I would. Far way to anywhere. Anywhere would be better than this. Drowning would be better than this.’ She turned round abruptly. ‘You bed down then, and I’ll bring you some cooked fish in a bit.’
    Jim could hear shouting from the cottage when Rosie went down to it. He could hear the old pecky woman crowing for food, and the grandfather coughing. Nobody seemed to talk quietly. From all the cottage doors and windows along the wharves there spilled out the sounds of shouting and arguing. Jim remembered the quiet of the wards and wondered whether Tip was asleep by now, and whether he was missing him.
    Later Rosie brought hot fish and tea and bread, and a candle in a holder for him. Jim had been lying on his stomach watching the boat lanterns glimmering like eyes on the water, as if they were creatures turning themselves