April 1989 . . . Mascar, London part two

It seems everything with Davey comes in Parts these days, but there you go. This piece follows directly on from my last piece, which explains th name.

Davey Herts, age 7.
He asked me if I wqs hungry and I nodded so he made me a sandwich and I at it. He asked me if I was sleeping on the streets and I nodded so he got me another blanket and made me another sandwich and I ate it. He told me his name was George Howard and that I could stay with him if I wanted to and I nodded. He laughed and asked me what my name was.
I glanced around the room for something to write with. Mr George laughed.
“What’s the matter, kid?” he asked as I scrambled around looking for the paper now I had found a pen.
Someone knocked on the door and Mr George called for them to come in. Another boy come in and asked Mr George for some money. He said he had some big scam planned and they could get at least a thousand from it. He said all he needed was five quid and that was it. Mr George yelled and said he couldn’t give him five quid and that if the boy wanted five quid he had to go and earn five quid.
Then the boy spotted me.
“Wow, Mr Howard,” the boy said, “We got ourselves another kid. And you can’t give us five quid?”
I didn’t know what five quid was so I just froze and pretended I was a statue.
“Get out, Josh!” Mr George said, “What I do and how I spen my money is nothing to do with you. I give you food, don’t I? I give you a bed, don’t I? If you want extras you can go out and earn them like everyone else. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m busy.”
“What’s his name?” the boy called Josh asked.
“Get out, Josh!” Mr George yelled, pushing the boy called Josh out of the door and slamming it shut. He sighed, calming down and sat beside me. He asked me if I wanted another sandwich and I shook my head and gave him the paper.
“Davey, ‘eh,” he said with a smile, “What’s up? Can’t you speak.”
I shook my head sadly. Mr George looked at me thoughtfully and I tried not to cry. I was tired and wet and hungry and Mr George was the first nice person I’d met in the entire Enkerland and now he wouldn’t want me because I couldn’t speak. He’d send me away to be tired and wet and hungry in the rain again.
But he didn’t. Mr George nodded and asked me if I had any other clothes. When I shook my head, he went and got me some new, dry clothes. He said they were too big and belonged to the boy named Josh, but they would do. I took of my jacket and my top and Mr George stopped me before I put the new top on.
“What are these, Davey?” he asked, pointing to some of the bruises, “Where did you get them?”
I shook my head and pretended they weren’t there.
Mr George was right. The top was really, really big but it was dry and soft.
“Ok, here’s what I’m going to do, Davey,” Mr George said, “You can stay here a couple of nights, until I spak to my boss and he can decide what to do next.”
I nodded quickly, not questioning the grin on his face or the gleam in his eyes.


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