When We Were Warriors

by Emma Carroll

  ‘Sherlock!’ she called, moving between the pickle shelves, empty crates, an old bicycle, gardening implements. ‘Come on, boy! Sherlock!’

  For a rat who supposedly answered to his name, he wasn’t being very obliging. Dispirited, she kept looking, but there were so many shadowy corners, so many gaps between the bricks where a rat could hide. She might be down here all day and still not find him. And that wasn’t an option, either. She’d have to tell Mo.

  She didn’t see the blood until she almost slipped in it – a sticky, jam-like pool right by the back door. What made it ten times worse were the giant footprints that trailed across the kitchen floor towards the hall. Velvet groaned out loud. She and Eddie had forgotten to take their shoes off last night, hadn’t they? Mrs Hussein was going to go bonkers when she saw.

  Frantic, she searched the kitchen for a cloth. There was only a dry one, which didn’t do much, and she didn’t have time to draw water from the pump out in the yard. The pool of blood wouldn’t shift at all. She ended up putting the doormat over the top of it. Feeling sick, and very sorry, she ran home.

  *

  By the time they reached school, Lynn knew everything, even the bad bit about Sherlock.

  ‘I’m dreading telling Mo,’ Velvet said.

  ‘Best get it over with,’ Lynn advised her. ‘Here he comes now.’

  He was heading straight for them across the school yard, his face as stormy as anything. Velvet gulped. His mother had seen the kitchen floor, hadn’t she? Or maybe he’d found Sherlock’s empty cage. Both things were her fault, and Velvet felt terrible.

  ‘I’m really sorry, I tried to clean it up,’ she blurted out, when Mo reached her.

  ‘You, Velvet Jones, shouldn’t even have been there!’ he cried. ‘What were you doing? And whose were those enormous footprints?’

  She tried to explain about getting caught in the raid. About Eddie and his bleeding head.

  ‘My mum has to go to work today, and what is she doing instead? Scrubbing the kitchen floor!’ Mo fumed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Velvet’s eyes filled up.

  ‘What did I tell you about shoes?’ Mo went on. ‘Take them off, I said, didn’t I?’

  Velvet nodded. ‘I’d better go and help your mum.’

  ‘Leave it.’ Mo, taking a deep breath, grew calmer. ‘My parents think someone broke in last night, that’s all. I haven’t told them the truth.’

  ‘Phew!’ Lynn gasped.

  Velvet shut her eyes with relief.

  ‘We can’t do it again, though,’ Mo warned. ‘I said we’d try it, but it really hasn’t worked. Next time the animals will have to go somewhere else.’

  Lynn frowned. ‘But where?’

  ‘Your place was pretty perfect,’ Velvet risked telling him. ‘Everyone knew where it was, the animals were really settled – far more than they normally are at the shelter. We all got a good night’s sleep.’

  ‘Even Sherlock, eh?’ Mo asked.

  So he knew about that too: she felt absolutely rotten.

  ‘He was in my pocket, honestly. I just wanted him to be all right, and feel safe, but when I checked in the morning …’ Velvet trailed off. It was pointless trying to explain.

  This plan of theirs wasn’t working. They were just a bunch of kids who loved animals, and it wasn’t enough. They weren’t brave or skilled like Lynn’s mum or Velvet’s. They couldn’t even think of a name for their plan, let alone agree on something that actually might work.

  *

  After school, Velvet knocked on every door in Barton Street and searched every single backyard. She was determined to find Sherlock. All day Mo had insisted that his pet rat would make his own way home, and that he wasn’t really that worried. But he’d been stiff and quiet in class, and hadn’t touched the semolina pudding at lunch, when normally he’d have gone back for seconds.

  Lynn came searching with her. The blocked road made everything take longer. Once they’d done the top of the street – with no joy – they had to walk right round the neighbourhood to reach the bottom of Barton Street again, where at Velvet’s house they found a parcel waiting on the doorstep.

  ‘Someone’s left you a present,’ Lynn observed.

  ‘Like who?’ Velvet was wary: she couldn’t think who’d send her a gift.

  The box was a posh-looking shoebox – pale blue with gold lettering along the sides, the lid tied down with string. Since Velvet’s last pair of shoes had been brought home wrapped in newspaper from the second-hand shop, it was a bit intriguing. Until she realised the box was just the right size for a dead rat. She started to feel ill then, because she was pretty certain Sherlock was inside.

  Taking a deep breath, Velvet picked up the box. As she did so, she felt something moving about inside. It nudged against the lid, lifting it slightly. She glimpsed whiskers and a pink twitchy nose.

  ‘Sherlock!’ she gasped. ‘Someone’s found him! He’s all right too!’

  Except he wasn’t. Once they’d got the lid off, they could see the damage properly. Poor Sherlock was holding up his front left paw in a very odd way. He was breathing too quickly. His eyes, usually as bright and black as jet beads, were misty and half closed.

  ‘There must be something we can do for him?’ she begged Lynn.

  Lynn made a ‘hmmmmm’ sound, which meant she was thinking.

  ‘You’ve got matches indoors?’ she asked. ‘Aspirin? String?’

  ‘Errr, I think so.’

  ‘Good. We’ll need to use your kitchen?’

  On tiptoe, they slipped inside. After her night shift, Mrs Jones was still asleep upstairs. Velvet hoped to heavens she wouldn’t hear them. Waking her up in the daytime when she was working nights never had happy consequences.

  ‘We’d best wash our hands,’ Lynn said.

  Using the pail of cold water on the draining board, they took it in turns to wash. When they’d shaken their hands dry, the floor was wet and the kitchen stank of Lifebuoy soap.

  ‘Now what?’ Velvet asked.

  They stood at the kitchen table, on which the shoebox – rat inside – took pride of place.

  ‘We’re going to set Sherlock’s leg,’ Lynn said.

  Velvet’s eyebrows shot up. ‘What, with matchsticks and string?’

  ‘And the tiniest grain of aspirin for his pain,’ she explained.

  It sounded crazy. Lynn was level-headed and had read a lot of books, but she wasn’t a vet, not a proper one.

  ‘You think you can do it?’ Velvet asked.

  Lynn tightened her pigtail, pushed her glasses up her nose. She looked formidable, suddenly. ‘Won’t know until I try. Can you find those things for me, please?’

  Velvet fetched matches and a ball of string from the kitchen drawer. The aspirin were in a little brown envelope on the mantelpiece. She crushed one with the back of a teaspoon, mixing the tiniest amount with a dab of jam.

  ‘Give it to Sherlock, gently now,’ Lynn instructed, beckoning her back to the table.

  But she was nervous, her hands trembling. Mo would’ve made a better assistant than her; he wasn’t squeamish like she was. She did her best at rubbing a jammy finger along Sherlock’s little lips, though she’d no idea if he’d swallowed any.

  ‘The matches, please,’ Lynn said. ‘We’re going to set his leg.’

  Velvet swallowed. ‘We?’

  ‘I can’t do it by myself,’ Lynn replied, rather sharply. ‘Now, hold his leg for me.’

  Willing the wooziness in her head to clear, she did as Lynn asked. The matches were lined up, short lengths of string cut. Then Lynn said, ‘Right, I’m going to straighten it. He might squeal.’

  ‘I’ll look away for this part,’ Velvet muttered.

  There was a squeak – only a little one – then Lynn said, ‘There, that’s done it.’

  When she felt brave enough to look, it was all over. Lynn was winding the ball of string, a satisfied smile on her face. Inside the box, Sherlock lay fast asleep. His little left paw, splinted with ma
tchsticks, stuck out awkwardly at his side. But he was alive, at least, thanks to Lynn and whoever had brought him back in a shoebox.

  6

  Mending Sherlock’s leg made Velvet more determined. Animals didn’t cause this stupid war, so it was unfair that they should suffer. When a warning went out on the radio the next morning that another air raid was expected, she insisted they walk to school via the old railway arches. That had been their original second choice after Mo’s cellar, and the need to find another shelter was now urgent.

  To reach the old arches, they had to go via Portland Place. Already it was hot again, but the sun was hidden by queer grey-green clouds, the air prickling with the promise of a thunderstorm. Velvet and Mo both wore their school sweaters tied round their waists. Lynn, who kept hers on to be neat, was red-faced and sweating.

  The streets were busy with trucks, the sort that carried soldiers, which rattled alarmingly over the potholes as they went by. The troops were mostly Americans: you could tell by their smart light-coloured uniforms, and how well fed they looked. Though Velvet kept an eager eye out for Eddie, she didn’t see him. The local residents meanwhile were filling buckets with water or sand, and putting fresh tape up in windows to protect the glass. It was all a worrying reminder that another big raid was coming.

  ‘Here, you’ll never guess what,’ Mo said, as if he’d just remembered something. They were walking up Portland Place, having passed Robert Clements’s house.

  ‘What?’ Velvet asked.

  Mo dropped his voice, glanced over his shoulder. ‘I found out about Mr Clements.’

  Velvet rolled her eyes: Mo could be a right old gossip sometimes. Though she had to admit she was pretty keen to hear this. ‘Go on, then. Is he really a murderer?’

  ‘Worse. Mr Clements is a conchie!’

  Lynn’s eyes went wide with surprise.

  ‘He is?’ Velvet pulled a face. A conchie was a Conscientious Objector, someone who refused to fight. There were other names too – nastier ones like ‘yellow-belly’ and ‘coward’, which might explain Mrs Gable’s choice of insult that night at the shelter.

  ‘He’s got a university degree and a good job,’ Mo told them. ‘But because he refused to fight on grounds of “conscience”, the War Office has made him drive a bus.’

  ‘A bus? What, here in Plymouth?’ Velvet had expected Mr Clements to be more glamorous, somehow. This discovery was a bit disappointing.

  ‘Yup. The one that goes all the way across the moors to Okehampton.’

  ‘No wonder people don’t like the Clementses very much,’ Lynn mused.

  ‘Robert’s ashamed, I bet,’ said Mo. ‘I mean, wouldn’t you be if that was your dad?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Lynn replied. ‘Though at least he knows his father’s somewhere safe.’

  ‘At least he knows his father,’ Velvet muttered, more to herself than anyone else.

  Behind them came the sound of a motorbike rumbling up the road. As the rider honked his horn, they jumped out of the way to let the vehicle pass, but when it drew level it slowed right down.

  ‘Hey, Velvet!’ The rider was Eddie, with another soldier riding pillon behind him. ‘How you doing?’

  Velvet beamed, especially as Lynn and Mo now stared at her with something like awe.

  ‘I’m all right, ta,’ she said. ‘Your eye’s looking better.’

  ‘Luckily!’ He smiled. ‘Last bit of shore leave coming up and I’m seeing my girl Queenie. Can’t propose looking like a clown, can I?’

  The other GI with him then butted in, ‘Say, do you kids know a boy who lives round here with a dog?’

  ‘What sort of dog?’ asked Lynn.

  ‘Big hairy thing. The boy’s got dark hair. His mom’s reported him missing and we think we’ve just found him, but he’s being stubborn as hell and won’t come out.’

  Velvet glanced at Lynn. At Mo. It sounded like Robert.

  ‘Is he all right?’ Velvet wanted to know.

  ‘I reckon so,’ Eddie said, glancing at his watch. ‘But look, we’ve just been radioed to another job in Stonehouse, so we need some help here. Would you try to get him out for us?’

  ‘All right!’ Velvet agreed.

  ‘Where is he?’ Mo asked.

  ‘Those old railroad arches just up the top of the street by the bus depot. And here, you’ll need this.’ Eddie handed Velvet his torch.

  She didn’t say they’d been going there anyway.

  *

  The railway arches were the sort of rundown spot where older kids often met at night to light camp fires or drink beer. They consisted of three tall brick arches that ran deep into the ground like open-fronted cellars and smelled worse than a privy. Just behind was the bus station, where the city’s buses came and went at all hours, spluttering and spewing out fumes. It was a noisy, grotty sort of place.

  Mo’s cellar had definitely been a better choice to shelter in. Even so, Velvet couldn’t help thinking you’d be safer here in an air raid than sitting it out at home.

  ‘How do they know there’s a boy in here?’ Lynn went first, picking over the chip wrappers and empty bottles that lay ankle deep on the floor. Inside, the arch quickly narrowed down to head height, and had the look of a slimy-bricked Victorian sewer. A far wall, about thirty or forty feet in, marked its abrupt end. There was no sign of anyone or any dog.

  ‘It might not even be Robert Clements,’ Mo pointed out.

  But Velvet was pretty sure it was.

  Then, from deep inside the arch they heard a highpitched squeal.

  ‘What on earth’s that?’ Velvet cried. It sounded more like a rat than a dog.

  ‘Puppies,’ Lynn replied. She pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Newborn puppies, I reckon.’

  Velvet swallowed nervously.

  ‘Should we maybe leave them to it?’ Mo asked, beginning to back away.

  ‘NO!’ Velvet and Lynn cried together.

  It was decided Lynn should go first.

  ‘You’re almost a vet,’ Velvet said. ‘You might be able to help!’

  Lynn gave her a worried scowl. ‘Don’t say that. You might jinx me.’

  ‘You both mended Sherlock’s leg so you’re hardly useless, either of you,’ Mo reminded them.

  ‘Exactly.’ Velvet handed Lynn Eddie’s torch. It was a good one, like a thin, bright lighthouse beam sweeping over the walls.

  The place stank of damp and rotting things. Walking was impossible: they had to clamber over the junk-littered floor. Mo, bringing up the rear, had already torn his school shorts. And since that first tiny squeal, they’d heard nothing more. It crossed Velvet’s mind that Robert had heard them coming and was hiding.

  At the far end, Lynn stopped. Torchlight danced across the back wall, picking up mould, smoke marks and what looked like a door – the sort made of several planks of wood nailed together.

  ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’ Mo whispered.

  To confirm it, there was another squeal. It went on longer this time, and they heard a voice saying, ‘Good girl. Keep trying.’

  Lynn opened the door.

  At first, it was hard to see. Everything looked grey, shapeless, and there was a smell like metal and dog all mixed together.

  ‘Robert?’ Velvet said warily.

  A rustling, scrabbling sound came from the corner.

  ‘Go away, can’t you?’ The voice was a boy’s. Robert’s.

  She was relieved, then annoyed.

  ‘Stop being so blinking snooty for a second,’ she said. ‘Your mum’s reported you missing, and we’ve been sent here by the army to bring you home.’

  The space they now stood in was little more than a cupboard. On the floor, on Robert’s school blazer, his dog lay panting. One small, black, damp-looking puppy was nuzzling greedily at her belly. Robert crouched beside her, his face white in the torch beam.

  ‘Go away,’ he said again.

  ‘You need to come home,’ Velvet replied, more gently now.

  Robert shook his head.
‘Mum doesn’t want us there. We had a big fight. She didn’t want the puppies born inside the house. She said it was best for Wisp to be somewhere quiet by herself, but I couldn’t leave her, I knew she was frightened.’

  ‘Most people would use their back shed,’ Mo muttered. ‘Not come to a stinky old railway arch.’

  ‘I would’ve done if we still had one – it’s where Wisp normally sleeps. But ours got burned down last week,’ Robert replied.

  ‘It did,’ Velvet said, remembering the raid. How lucky that Wisp didn’t perish along with it. No wonder Robert had been so grateful to her mother in the street that day.

  ‘We’re not leaving here without you,’ Mo said, still sounding bristly.

  Though in his current state Robert clearly wasn’t going anywhere. There was blood all up his arms, and what looked like dark green slime.

  ‘Don’t panic. That’s all normal,’ Lynn whispered to Robert, ‘How long since the first pup was born?’

  ‘Two hours, maybe three,’ he said.

  Lynn paused. ‘Right. Well, that isn’t normal.’

  The dog started straining again. She whimpered, nosing Robert’s hand like she wanted him to help, but all he could do was smooth her head and talk gently to her. It was obvious how much he adored her.

  ‘Can’t we take her to a vet?’ Mo asked, realising how desperate things were.

  ‘Too late,’ Robert replied. ‘He’s on the other side of town.’ He and Wisp were both exhausted and looked ready to give up. Velvet wanted to shake him. If Wisp were hers, she’d carry her all the way across Plymouth if she had to.

  But Lynn was already kneeling down next to Wisp, rolling up her sleeves. ‘The next puppy’s stuck, that’s the problem,’ she explained. ‘We need to get it out.’

  Robert stiffened. ‘Please keep away from my dog!’

  ‘If we don’t do something, she’ll die,’ Lynn said bluntly.

  Robert started to cry.