by Maile Meloy
“Bomb drill!” one of the lunch ladies called, coming along the long tables. “Under the tables, please!”
It was Duck and Cover, English-style. Sergei and I both got under the long table, and everyone in the lunchroom pushed back their benches and did the same.
Everyone, that is, except one boy. He was at the next table over, and he sat calmly where he was, eating his lunch. From my place on the floor, I could see the lunch lady in her white uniform approach.
“Mr Burrows,” she said. “Get under the table, please.”
“No,” he said. “I won’t.”
His eyes were serious and intent, and his hair didn’t flop limply over his eyes like so many of the boys’ hair did, but grew back from his forehead in sandy waves, leaving his face exposed and defiant. The knot of his tie was pushed off to the side, as if it got in his way.
“Do you want an engraved invitation?” the lunch lady asked, with her hands on her hips.
“It’s idiotic,” he said. “I won’t do it.”
“I’m sure you were wetting your nappies out in the country during the Blitz,” the woman said. “But some of us were in London, and a bomb drill is not a time to play at rebellion.”
The sandy-haired boy leaned towards her, across the lunch table. “I wasn’t in the country,” he said. “I was here. And we both know that these tables would have done nothing against those bombs—not the V-1, not the V-2, not even the smaller ones dropped by planes.”
The lunch lady frowned. “I’ll be forced to give you a demerit, Benjamin.”
“But this isn’t even a V-2 we’re talking about,” he said. “This is an atom bomb. When it comes, not even the basement shelters will save us. We’ll all be incinerated, the whole city. Our flesh will burn, then we’ll turn to ash.”
The woman had lost the colour in her face, but her voice still had its commanding ring. “Two demerits!”
But the boy, Benjamin Burrows, was making a speech now, for the benefit of the whole lunchroom. He had a thrilling, defiant voice to go with his thrilling, defiant face. “That is, of course,” he said, “assuming we’re lucky enough to be near the point of impact. For the children in the country, it will be slower. And much, much more painful.”
“Stop!” she said.
A short bell rang to signal the end of the drill, and people climbed out from under the tables, but I stayed where I was. I wanted to watch Benjamin Burrows a little longer without being seen. I was terrified by what he’d said, but moved by his defiance. I tried to sort out whether it was the terror or the excitement that was making my heart beat inside my rib cage at such an unexpected pace.
CHAPTER 4
Spies
I was supposed to take the Underground to Riverton Studios in Hammersmith after school, to see my parents at work. Robin Hood wasn’t on the air yet, but they had built a whole Sherwood Forest in a cavernous, warehouse-like soundstage, and they wanted me to see it. I was walking home to drop my books off, in an ambivalent drizzle, thinking about orange trees and avocados, when I passed the apothecary’s shop on Regent’s Park. Through the window, I saw a familiar sandy head of hair. I stopped to watch through the glare on the glass. Benjamin Burrows was shaking his head angrily and saying something to the kind apothecary.
I pushed the door open just enough to slip in, and stepped behind a row of shelves as if browsing for toothpaste. There was no bell on the door, and Benjamin and the apothecary were too occupied with their argument to notice me. Benjamin wore a leather satchel, like a messenger bag, slung on a long strap across his chest. He didn’t wear a wool cap like most of the other St Beden’s boys did.
“I don’t see why it matters,” he was saying. “Mrs Pratt’s just a nutter who likes being sick.”
“The delivery is still late,” the apothecary said.
“I had things to do.”
“You had things to do here.”
“Poxy things,” Benjamin muttered.
“We still have this shop,” the apothecary said, “through war and through difficult times, because we take care of our customers. Your great-grandfather did it, and your grandfather did it, and people trust us to do it now.”
“But you wanted to be an apothecary, like them,” Benjamin said. “I don’t want to!”
The apothecary paused. “When I was your age, I didn’t want to be one, either.”
“Well, you should’ve got out while you could!” Benjamin said. His anger, which had seemed so fitting against the lunch lady, seemed petulant against his father. If I’d had to guess, in the lunchroom, what Benjamin Burrows’s father might be like, I would never have picked the quiet, methodical apothecary. Benjamin snatched the paper bag off the counter and stormed out the door without seeing me.
I tried to slip out behind a row of shelves, too, without being noticed, but the apothecary said, “Good afternoon. It’s the girl with the homesickness, isn’t it? Did the powder help?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was thinking about home on my way here. About orange trees. And blue sky.”
The apothecary looked out at the drizzle. “It would be strange not to think about orange trees and blue sky on a day like today,” he said. “No matter what powder you took.”
“And my new school is pretty awful,” I said.
The apothecary laughed. “The man who develops a tincture against the awful new school will win the Nobel Prize. It would be far more useful than the cure for the common cold.”
I smiled. “When you have the tincture, will you give me some?”
“You’ll be the first.”
There was an awkward pause.
“I fear you overheard my argument with my son,” he said.
“A little bit.”
“He’s a very bright, very talented young man, and he would be a fine apothecary, but he has no interest in it.”
“Maybe he’ll change his mind.”
The apothecary nodded. His mind seemed to be elsewhere, so I said good-bye and slipped out the door.
I dropped my books at the flat and set out for Riverton. My father had left elaborate directions to the studio. But as soon as I was in the street, I had the feeling, once again, of being watched. I knew it couldn’t be the marshals—they had no jurisdiction in England. I turned and saw nothing, just the cabs and cars and people walking home.
I ran down the steps of the bomb-battered Underground, weaving around the slow old people with their bags, and hid behind a pillar to see who came down after me. There were housewives and students, and men leaving work early, and then there was Benjamin Burrows, with his incorrigible hair and his bright, curious eyes. I stepped back behind the pillar.
I watched Benjamin look around. He stood on the platform, facing away from me, as if disappointed and unsure what to do next, so I left my hiding place and tapped him on the shoulder.
He turned, startled. Then he smiled as if I’d won a game we’d been playing. “Very good,” he said.
“Why are you following me?”
“Because you interest me.”
That wasn’t the answer I’d expected. I’d never interested a boy before, at least not that I knew of. There were boys in Los Angeles who had been my friends, or the children of my parents’ friends, but I’d never crossed into the land of interest.
“I saw you at school,” he said. “Why’d you come to London in the middle of the term?”
“None of your business.”
“Are your parents in the CIA?”
“What?”
“It’s a simple question,” he said. “Are they spies?”
“No! They’re writers. They’re working for the BBC.”
“That’s a good cover for spying. Are they journalists?”
“They’re television writers.”
He looked puzzled. “Why’d they come to England to do that? There’s much more television in America.”
“Because,” I said, “well—because they believe in the First Amendment.”
Benjamin screwed up his face. “Which one is that again?”
“Freedom of speech.” I was glad to know the answer. “And the press. And, um—religion, I think.”
“But they aren’t journalists,” he said. “So what’s the thing they want to be free to say?”
I realised I didn’t know.
He narrowed his eyes merrily at me. “They aren’t Communists, are they?” he said, teasing.
“No!”
“Then what?”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to say it like Katharine Hepburn would, as if she didn’t give a fig about anything so ridiculous and petty.
“I don’t care if they are,” he said. “For mind control, Communism has nothing on television. People can listen to The Archers on the wireless and still have a conversation with their families, but once they’ve got a television set, it’s all over.”
I didn’t know what The Archers was, and Benjamin’s confidence made me feel inarticulate and naïve. So I struck out in the only way I could, and said, “Why don’t you want to be an apothecary?”
His manner changed abruptly: He became guarded and annoyed. “How do you know that?”
“Maybe I’m a better spy than you are.”
A train pulled up to the platform, and people spilled out.
I checked the destination. “This is my train,” I said, and I stepped through the open doors.
To my surprise, Benjamin boarded after me. We found two seats facing forward. My heart started pounding.
“Don’t tell me you’re going to Riverton, too,” I said coolly, to hide my confusion.
“You shouldn’t ride the train alone.”
“Why? Because strange boys might follow me?”
“How d’you know I’m supposed to be an apothecary?”
“I was in your father’s shop when you were talking to him,” I said. “But I don’t understand why you have to be one, just because your father is. That seems very—I don’t know. Nineteenth-century.”
Benjamin slumped back in his seat. “It’s not nineteenth-century, it’s just English,” he said. “There’s an expectation.”
“That you become what your father is?”
“In some cases. In my case. The Society of Apothecaries pays my school fees, and I wouldn’t be at St Beden’s without them. I’d be at some grim secondary modern, getting mullered every day.”
“Mullered?”
“Pounded on. But the Society assumes that if they pay for my school, I’ll become one of them.”
“So why don’t you want to?”
“Because it’s bloody boring! My father’s just a pill-counter!”
“He gave me a powder for homesickness.”
Benjamin looked interested. “Did it work?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe. The hot water bottles did.”
Benjamin’s interest vanished, replaced by contempt. “You see? He sells hot water bottles. And ointments for babies’ nappy rash. It’s so pedestrian. There’s nothing less interesting.”
“So what do you want to be?”
He paused. “I want to live a life of travel and adventure and service to my country.”
“You want to be a soldier?”
He seemed embarrassed to have said so much. “No.”
Then I realised. He had tailed me unseen, and thought my parents were spies. “You want to be a spy!”
He frowned. “If that was true, I couldn’t tell you.”
“I think you just did tell me.”
“Well—I’d like to work for the Secret Intelligence Service,” he admitted. “In some way. But don’t tell anyone.”
I nodded. I guessed the Secret Intelligence Service must be England’s spies. I glanced across the aisle and whispered, “I think that man in the bowler hat heard you.”
He looked quickly to see, but the man was so buried in his book that he wouldn’t have noticed if the train ran off the tracks. Benjamin smiled, relieved. He looked down at his shoes. “It’s just that I’ve never told anyone,” he said.
A garbled voice came over the loudspeakers, announcing Hammersmith Station, and the train started to slow.
“This is my stop,” I said, getting up. I hated to do it. It was the first time in England that I’d felt so happy and comfortable, and I didn’t want to get off the train. Benjamin followed, and we stood facing each other on the platform as people streamed around us. Benjamin’s dark eyes were actually a warm brown, with bright flecks of copper in them, like the scattering of freckles across his nose.
I glanced away, unsettled, and tried to think what to say. It didn’t seem right to invite him to the studio, and my parents would tease me if I showed up with a boy. Across the platform, the train going the other direction pulled in.
“I should go,” Benjamin said. “I still have deliveries to make.”
“Thanks for keeping me company.”
“Listen,” he said. “What are you doing Saturday?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Meet me on the steps of the school at two and I’ll show you Hyde Park.”
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Look, if your parents let you take the Underground alone, they’ll let you go to Hyde Park.” His return train was about to leave.
“Okay,” I said.
“Terrific!” He started across the platform.
I walked away, thinking dizzily that I had a date, when I heard Benjamin’s voice say, “Janie, wait!”
I turned, wondering what I would do if he tried to kiss me.
“I forgot to ask,” he said. “Do you play chess?”
CHAPTER 5
Sherwood Forest
At Riverton Studios, in a grey mist, I pushed open the two heavy doors of the soundstage and walked into a green canopy of trees, warm with light. There was a rope swing hanging from one of the trees, and a log bridge. The trees were all made of fabric and papier-mâché and plywood, but the effect was beautiful. There was a hut that was clearly the heroes’ hiding place. I would have loved to play inside it when I was just a tiny bit younger—and in all honesty, I still wanted to. I didn’t see any actors, and thought they must not be filming yet. No one noticed me, and I stood for a moment taking it in.
My parents were across the soundstage, talking to a tall woman with piled-up red hair, and I could tell that my father was acting out a scene. He did that all the time—he couldn’t just suggest a story idea, he had to act it out. My mother stood with her arms crossed and watched him with her full attention, and with an expression that could be adoring one second and sceptical the next, depending on what she thought of his idea. It always made me feel that she knew him perfectly, and loved him, but couldn’t be fooled.
Then my father saw me and threw up his hands. “Ah, but here is Maid Marian!” he cried in a full Robin Hood voice. “To tell us if we should attack the knight!”
I knew, from years of scenes being acted out in our kitchen, that the thing to do was to join in, and try to move the scene forward. “Does he come to fight?” I asked.
My father looked to the others. “Why, no,” he said. “He has no horse, no men-at-arms.”
“Then you may approach,” I said. “But you mustn’t attack.”
“What wisdom,” he said, “in one so young.” Then he broke the Robin Hood character and hugged me. “You found us! Come meet Olivia!”
The redheaded woman, their new boss, didn’t shake my hand but pulled me in and hugged me warmly, too. “Thank you for lending me your parents, Janie,” she said. “They’re saving my life!”
“How was school?” my father asked. “How were the teachers?”
“They’re making me take Latin,” I complained. “But I don’t know any Latin!”
“Wait—you might actually learn something?” my mother said, pretending to be aghast.
I rolled my eyes. “Mom.”
Olivia Wolff led us into her office, pushed coats off a chair for me, and perched on the edge of her cluttered des
k. “Sit down,” she said. “How was it, really?”
I made a face. I couldn’t help it. “Not everything is bad.”
“Did you make friends?”
“Maybe one.”
“What’s her name?”
I felt myself blushing. “His name.”
Olivia clapped her hands. “His name! That’s a good start.”
“He invited me to play chess in Hyde Park.”
“Chess means he’s smart!” my father said. “He’s smart, right?”
“Is he nice?” my mother asked.
“Is he cute?” Olivia asked.
“Is this an interrogation?” I asked. “I thought we moved here to get away from those.”
“Touché,” my father said.
Olivia laughed. “No question—she’s your daughter.”
“So what’s your boyfriend’s name?” my mother asked.
“He’s not a boyfriend,” I said.
“That’s what my daughter always says,” Olivia said. “Any time I think she has a boyfriend, she says it’s a figment of my imagination.”
“Ah, he’s a Figment!” my father said, putting on an exaggerated English accent. “Young Master Figment, of the London Figments.”
“Fourteenth cousins to the queen!” Olivia trilled.
“I can never remember,” my mother said, “if the elder Figment son is Andrew or Alistair.”
Normally I loved my parents’ quickness with jokes, and would wish for them a boss like Olivia who was just as quick, but occasionally it could be really annoying. “His name is Benjamin,” I said. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”
“Benjamin Figment!” my father said. “I like him already. Let’s brush up your chess tonight. I don’t want my daughter shown up by a chap called Ben Figment.”
“I have homework.”
“Just let me give you a good opening.”
“Dad,” I said. “Seriously.”
“So what’s so bad about the school?” Olivia asked. “It sounds glorious to me—Latin and chess dates and all.”