deckchairs piled, and aluminium pots and pans on a paraffin stove, even a pile of foodtins in an open cupboard. There was shelter in there, and dry blankets and food. So close. Only a sheet of glass away.
He crossed to the third carriage, and the wind and rain hit him with renewed ferocity, so he staggered and fell down. His mind was a roaring turmoil. He would die… the dog would die. They had a right to live… as much right as these people who owned these holiday railway carriages. They had another home somewhere. They weren’t out in this storm. He made up his mind he would smash the glass on the last carriage, if it was locked.
The door opened as he turned the handle. He splashed back for his bundles.
“Come on, boy!”
The dog needed no second telling. They were out of the storm with the door shut in a flash. The storm was only screaming round the corners of the carriage, and the rain lashing harmlessly against the great windows, and drumming on the roof. The whole place smelt musty, as if nobody had lived there for a long time.
There was a great brass paraffin lamp, hanging from the ceiling. He knew the sort; his gran had once had one justlike it. He swung it; plenty of paraffin glugged inside. He lifted out the glass funnel carefully, because he was shivering all over. Remembered which way to turn the little brass wheels, so the wicks came up, instead of vanishing down inside.
He groped the attachè case open, and felt for the matches he’d had so long ago. They were still dry; it was a good attachè case. But his hands were wet, and that might spoil the matches. He found something in the dark to dry them on; it took a long time to dry them; the rain seemed to have soaked right inside them, as if they were a sodden dishcloth.
A golden light sprang up and lit the carriage. And he immediately panicked about the blackout. But there were thick, thick curtains. He felt their dusty dryness as he drew them. Safe.
It was then he saw the piece of writing, propped up against a flower vase on the little table. It was on a piece of thick white cardboard, probably cut from a shoebox. It said,
To the lost traveller.
You are welcome here, friend. The door is not locked. Sleep if you wish. Eat what you need. We are glad that, even in wartime, we could leave you something. Go on your way in the morning refreshed.Please leave things as you found them for the next person in need. Pay if you can for what you have had, hut if you cannot, do not worry. Pray for us, as we will pray for you.
Jack, Harriet, Susan and Shirley.
PS. We hope you will be as happy here as we have always been.
PPS. Spare paraffin in the can outside.
There was a framed photograph by the side of the note, propped up on its little leg at the back. It was of a vicar in his dog-collar and his wife and two little girls. They were all smiling at the camera, in a broad friendly way. They looked nice.
Harry stared around. The carriage was just one big room, except for a plank wall with a door at one end; beyond the door was a little table with an enamel bowl and ewer, and a lot of hooks on the wall. All the railway seats were gone; but there was a wood-stove with paper and sticks and coal, a big table with plates, easy chair and bunk-beds made up with sheets.
It was weird, like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears. He was almost afraid to touch anything, except the family kept smiling at him from the photograph, as if urging him on.
A big shiver warned him to get out of his sopping clothes; besides, they were dripping on the floor, making puddles. He tossed them down in the enamel basin and wrapped himself in a brown blanket. After that, there was the dog to dry, the stove to light, a huge tin of baked beans to open and share. So much to do, and he was so
weary.
But at last he could crawl into a bunk, leaving all his wet things to steam on chairs round the glowing stove. It was on the verge of sleep that he remembered the bargain he had
He crossed to the third carriage, and the wind and rain hit him with renewed ferocity, so he staggered and fell down. His mind was a roaring turmoil. He would die… the dog would die. They had a right to live… as much right as these people who owned these holiday railway carriages. They had another home somewhere. They weren’t out in this storm. He made up his mind he would smash the glass on the last carriage, if it was locked.
The door opened as he turned the handle. He splashed back for his bundles.
“Come on, boy!”
The dog needed no second telling. They were out of the storm with the door shut in a flash. The storm was only screaming round the corners of the carriage, and the rain lashing harmlessly against the great windows, and drumming on the roof. The whole place smelt musty, as if nobody had lived there for a long time.
There was a great brass paraffin lamp, hanging from the ceiling. He knew the sort; his gran had once had one justlike it. He swung it; plenty of paraffin glugged inside. He lifted out the glass funnel carefully, because he was shivering all over. Remembered which way to turn the little brass wheels, so the wicks came up, instead of vanishing down inside.
He groped the attachè case open, and felt for the matches he’d had so long ago. They were still dry; it was a good attachè case. But his hands were wet, and that might spoil the matches. He found something in the dark to dry them on; it took a long time to dry them; the rain seemed to have soaked right inside them, as if they were a sodden dishcloth.
A golden light sprang up and lit the carriage. And he immediately panicked about the blackout. But there were thick, thick curtains. He felt their dusty dryness as he drew them. Safe.
It was then he saw the piece of writing, propped up against a flower vase on the little table. It was on a piece of thick white cardboard, probably cut from a shoebox. It said,
To the lost traveller.
You are welcome here, friend. The door is not locked. Sleep if you wish. Eat what you need. We are glad that, even in wartime, we could leave you something. Go on your way in the morning refreshed.Please leave things as you found them for the next person in need. Pay if you can for what you have had, hut if you cannot, do not worry. Pray for us, as we will pray for you.
Jack, Harriet, Susan and Shirley.
PS. We hope you will be as happy here as we have always been.
PPS. Spare paraffin in the can outside.
There was a framed photograph by the side of the note, propped up on its little leg at the back. It was of a vicar in his dog-collar and his wife and two little girls. They were all smiling at the camera, in a broad friendly way. They looked nice.
Harry stared around. The carriage was just one big room, except for a plank wall with a door at one end; beyond the door was a little table with an enamel bowl and ewer, and a lot of hooks on the wall. All the railway seats were gone; but there was a wood-stove with paper and sticks and coal, a big table with plates, easy chair and bunk-beds made up with sheets.
It was weird, like Goldilocks in the house of the three bears. He was almost afraid to touch anything, except the family kept smiling at him from the photograph, as if urging him on.
A big shiver warned him to get out of his sopping clothes; besides, they were dripping on the floor, making puddles. He tossed them down in the enamel basin and wrapped himself in a brown blanket. After that, there was the dog to dry, the stove to light, a huge tin of baked beans to open and share. So much to do, and he was so
weary.
But at last he could crawl into a bunk, leaving all his wet things to steam on chairs round the glowing stove. It was on the verge of sleep that he remembered the bargain he had
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