Buried Crown

by Ally Sherrick

  Sliding the album inside his knapsack, he headed downstairs and back out round to the barn. ‘Come on, boy. Let’s get out of here.’ He tied a loop in a piece of old rope, slipped it gently over Spud’s head and led him out into the yard.

  He paused for a moment to glance about him. He wouldn’t miss this place one little bit. He’d had his fill of cleaning out stinky pigsties, shovelling manure and getting pecked to bits by bad-tempered hens. And he never wanted to see another potato as long as he lived. Wherever he went next, one thing was certain; it wasn’t going to be a smelly old farm. Giving a quick tug on Spud’s makeshift lead, he strode out through the gate and set off in the direction of town.

  It was as the crossroads came into view that he saw the pony and cart. They were in the shade of a clump of trees a little before where the track divided. George’s heart did a quick somersault. There was no way Jarvis could’ve got into town and back. Not in that time. But where was he? He glanced about him. There was no sign. He puffed out a breath and tugged on Spud’s lead again. The sooner they got past the cart and on to the main road the better.

  As they slid alongside it, the pony jerked its head round and bared its chipped yellow teeth.

  George froze, then slowly held out a hand. ‘It’s all right, horsey. It’s only us.’

  The animal stared at them uncertainly for a moment, then gave a loud snort and went back to munching on a clump of dusty-looking grass at the side of the track.

  George and Spud hurried on. They had reached the junction and were about to dash across it when Spud jolted to a sudden stop.

  ‘What is it, boy?’ George followed his gaze down the left-hand fork. And then he saw them too: Jarvis and another man, standing some distance off in the shadows beneath a bank of trees, hunched over what looked like a sack of potatoes. Jarvis had his back to them. The other man, who was a head or two taller, stood side-on, his fair hair and pale, hollow-cheeked face lit by a shaft of sunlight shining through the branches above their heads.

  George’s stomach clenched. They had to get out of sight and quick. Clamping a hand over Spud’s quivering snout, he yanked him behind a nearby bush and peered back through the leaves.

  Jarvis had picked up the sack and was holding out his right hand. The younger man cast about him, as if checking the coast was clear. Reaching inside the heavy-looking black overcoat he was wearing, he dropped a handful of coins into Jarvis’s outstretched palm. Jarvis shoved the sack at him with a grunt and began to count the money.

  Instead of waiting for him to finish, his companion hoisted the sack over his shoulder and set off at a brisk march away round the bend.

  George frowned. Who was he and what was he dressed like that for when it was such a scorcher? Unless . . . maybe he was one of those Home Guard types the postman had mentioned, camped out on some kind of secret training exercise. He shook his head. Whoever he was, he’d got to be desperate, buying a bunch of rotten potatoes off Bill Jarvis.

  He glanced back at Jarvis. He was busy pocketing the coins. Any minute now he’d turn round and come marching towards them. His stomach gripped again. Time to get out of here, while they still had the chance.

  He tugged on the rope. But Spud stood there shivering, eyes wide with fear.

  George pulled on the rope again. Still Spud refused to budge.

  ‘Come on, boy, or it’ll be too late.’

  As he spoke the words, a shadow fell across them, blotting out the light.

  ‘Too late fer what?’

  Keeping a tight grip on Spud’s lead, George steeled himself and turned round.

  Jarvis stood in front of him, his whiskery face tight with rage. ‘And just where d’yer think yer off to, City Boy?’

  ‘I-I thought I’d take him for a walk.’ George nodded at Spud.

  Jarvis’s eyes flicked to the dog then to George’s knapsack. ‘What kind of a fool d’yer take me fer? Get in the cart.’

  George stood his ground, fists clenched.

  ‘Disobey me, would yer? Well, let’s see if I can’t change yer mind.’ Quick as a flash, Jarvis wrenched the rope from George’s grasp. Yanking Spud to him, he snatched up a broken bit of tree branch and rammed it against the side of the dog’s skull. Spud gave a terrified whimper.

  George’s heart jolted. ‘Don’t hurt him. Please!’

  ‘Well, do as I say then.’ Jarvis drew back the branch. Spud struggled against him, but it was no use. Jarvis had him reined in good and proper.

  George held up his hands. ‘All right, all right.’ He turned and stumbled back up the track. As he reached the cart, the pony lifted its head and gave a quick whicker of recognition. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up on to the hard wooden seat.

  Jarvis strode past him to the rear of the cart, dragging the cringing dog at his heels.

  George’s heart did another flip. ‘It’ll be OK, boy. I promise.’

  ‘Stop yer blitheren’!’ Jarvis flung down the tailgate. Grabbing Spud round the middle, he lifted him up and threw him inside. The dog gave a sharp yelp as he hit the wooden boards, then fell silent.

  Jarvis slid the end of the rope through a hook and tied it tight. Slamming the tailgate shut again, he stalked round to the front of the cart and swung himself up next to George. ‘Now.’ He snatched up the whip and thrust the butt of the worn leather handle against his chest. ‘Where’s my letter?’

  George felt the blood drain from his face. How did he know? If he found out he’d opened it . . . He swallowed hard and forced himself to look his tormentor square in the eyes. ‘Wh-what letter?’

  Jarvis dug the whip handle deeper. ‘Don’t mess with me, City Boy. That old fool of a postman passed me a while back. He said he’d given it yer. Now hand it over, or else.’ He tugged the whip handle free and stroked a grimy finger along the snake of black leather that dangled from it.

  A sour flush of liquid spiked the back of George’s throat. Clenching his jaw, he reached in his pocket and pulled out the crumpled grey envelope.

  Jarvis seized it and flipped it over. His eyes flashed with fresh anger. ‘Why, yer little—’ He pushed open the flap and plucked the letter free. His expression changed at the sight of the ten-bob note. Pocketing it with a greedy smirk, he turned back to the letter, bunched up his forehead and began to read. When he’d finished, he screwed it into a ball, tossed it to the ground and fixed George with a knife-sharp stare.

  ‘So yer precious brother’s finally taken to the skies, has he? Well, let’s hope Lady Luck’s smilen’ on him, because the way I heard it, those Jerry planes are shooten’ the new boys down ten-a-penny.’

  George’s throat tightened. ‘Charlie’ll be all right. I know he will.’

  Jarvis gave a hard-sounding laugh. ‘Yer do, do yer? Sounds like old Charlie-boy might not be quite so sure.’ He pulled the ten-bob note from his pocket and waved it in George’s face. ‘And what about this? Thought yer’d rob me and hightail it out of here, did yer?’

  A spurt of anger shot up inside George. ‘Give it back. It ain’t yours!’ He scrambled to his feet and made a swipe for the money. The cart rocked from side to side, sending Spud into a frenzy of barking. The pony whinnied and pitched forwards.

  Jarvis yanked George down and dragged on the reins. ‘Whoa! Steady boy!’ He glared at him, then, swivelling round in his seat, he drew the whip back and cracked it down an inch from Spud’s nose. The dog gave another yelp and jammed himself trembling against the tailgate. ‘Let that be a lesson to yer.’

  George’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Spud. No!’ He reached out to him, but Jarvis clamped a muscled arm across his chest.

  ‘Spud? What kind of a stupid name is that?’ He puckered his lips and shot a glistening gobbet of spit into the back of the cart.

  George struggled against him.

  ‘Leave him!’ Jarvis jerked George round to face the front. ‘And if yer try runnen’ away again’– he narrowed his eyes and tipped his head at the back of the cart – ‘I promise yer this, old Spud’
s life won’t be worth liven’.’

  George shivered. He threw a quick glance over his shoulder, but Spud had buried himself beneath a pile of old sacks and only the dusty white tip of his tail was visible. He slumped his shoulders and fixed his eyes on his boots. The cart lurched forwards. A few moments later he felt it swing round, and when he looked up again, they were rattling up the track in the direction of the farm.

  When they arrived, Jarvis bundled Spud out of the cart and dragged him back into the barn. Then he marched George to the potting shed and set him to work on a crate-load of mouldy potatoes with an order not to come indoors until he’d ‘tidied’ the lot of them.

  As he dug the green shoots from the potatoes’ leathery skins, George did his level best not to think about what Jarvis had said about Charlie. What did he know anyway? Besides, he had the ring, didn’t he? His thoughts turned back to Spud again. There was no way of going to check on him, not with that rotten bully on the prowl. But one thing was for sure, the minute he got the chance he’d rescue him and they’d be out of here faster than you could say ‘Spitfire’. He heaved a sigh and shovelled another load of potatoes on to the workbench.

  The sun was going down when he finally finished. Slinging his knapsack over his shoulder, he opened the door and peered out into the yard. There was no sign of Jarvis. Maybe this was his chance? He darted across to the barn. But when he reached it, his heart sank. The mean so-and-so had gone and fixed a rusty great padlock to the door. He went to call Spud’s name, then thought better of it. If Jarvis heard him, it would only make things worse for both of them. Best wait till later.

  He clutched his stomach. It was griping something awful. He’d have to go and face him if he wanted any supper. As he rounded the barn, he shivered. An oil lamp was shining at the kitchen window. Jarvis hadn’t bothered putting up blackout curtains. Said the ARP wardens were too lazy to come and check this far out of town. George steeled himself and pushed open the door.

  But he was in luck. When he got inside, Jarvis was lying face down on the kitchen table fast asleep, his right hand curled round an empty bottle of his favourite home-made ‘tater’ vodka. George’s mouth watered at the sight of the half-eaten plate of sausage ’n’ mash in front of the man. Snatching up what was left of a sausage, he hurried back outside.

  As he drew closer to the barn he heard the rattle of a chain. He squatted down. ‘Here we are, boy.’ He pushed a bit of the leftover sausage through a gap in the planks. There was a snuffling sound followed by a low whimper. George’s chest tightened. ‘I know, Spud. I’m sorry. He’s gone and put a padlock on. But I’m going to get you out of there soon, I promise.’

  His stomach rumbled again. He looked down at the other bit of sausage and hesitated, then shoved it through the gap quickly before he had a chance to change his mind. ‘Try and get some kip, boy. I’ll come back in the morning.’ Trailing a hand across the gap, he got to his feet and set off back to the cottage.

  Bill Jarvis was where he’d left him, slumped across the table and snoring loud enough to raise the dead. Tiptoeing over to the cupboard, George helped himself to a slice of dry bread. He crammed it into his mouth and crept up the stairs to his room. Changing into his pyjamas, he slid Charlie’s album out of his knapsack and leafed through it for a bit in the shadows, before tucking it under his pillow and climbing into bed.

  In spite of the scratchy blanket and the lumpiness of the mattress, it didn’t take long for him to drift into sleep. And with sleep came the dream. The one he’d been dreaming on and off ever since he got here . . .

  Him and Charlie were building the Anderson shelter in Mrs Jenkins’s back yard to keep her and George safe from old Hitler and his bombs. They’d already dug out the pit and were busy fixing the corrugated metal walls and roof in place. When Charlie had finished tightening the last bolt, he climbed down inside to inspect their work. But as he turned round to give George the thumbs up, something strange happened: something that hadn’t happened before.

  A tide of grey mist slid up over the top of the shelter. As it snaked across the roof and walls, they melted away, leaving Charlie standing on his own in the middle of the pit, a blank look on his face. And then the ground beneath him shuddered and the sides of the pit began to collapse.

  George tried to shout a warning, but his mouth was blocked and no sound came. He made to jump forwards, but his feet were stuck too. He twisted and turned, trying to break free, but it was no use. When he looked up again, Charlie had gone – and in his place there was nothing. Nothing but a black gaping hole and a mound of thick, dark earth.

  And then he heard the voice. Faint and faraway. Charlie! Dashing to the edge of the hole, he flung himself down and peered in.

  At first all he saw was a swirling pool of mist. Then a faint golden glow rippled up beneath it and a dark shape snaked into view. He watched open-mouthed as the shape curled itself around the light, squeezing its shadowy coils about it until no more than a pinprick was visible. The ground rocked again and the mound began to tremble, sliding forwards and shooting a torrent of black earth into the hole.

  Charlie! No!

  George jolted awake, gasping for breath. He peered about him. A finger of moonlight shone through a hole in the tattered curtains. He blinked and blew out his cheeks. A bad dream, that was all. He snatched up his trousers from the end of the bed and reached inside the pocket for the ring. He puffed out another breath. Still safe.

  He pulled it out and ran a fingertip across the inscription. Then, slipping it on to his right thumb, he lay down again and sank back into sleep.

  Saturday 7 September

  The rusty crowing of Bill Jarvis’s vicious one-eyed cockerel woke George with a start. He scrunched his eyes against the light and groaned. What jobs had Jarvis got lined up for him today? More stone-picking? Or maybe he’d be back on dung duty again, cleaning out the pigs or shovelling up the pony’s doings? Then he remembered the dream. He shivered. It wasn’t real; he knew that. But it had spooked him good and proper. The sooner he and Spud got away from here and he got to see Charlie again, the better. If only he could find the key to the padlock . . .

  A thud of boots sounded on the stairs below. He rolled over, pulling the moth-eaten blanket over his head, and held his breath.

  A few seconds later, the door banged open. ‘Get dressed, City Boy! We’re goen’ into town.’ A hand whipped the blanket back and yanked him up.

  George twisted free and hugged his arms across his chest. ‘Why?’

  ‘To buy a Meccano set. Why d’yer think?’ Jarvis’s bloodshot eyes darted to George’s pillow. ‘What’ve yer got stashed under there?’ He bent over and snatched the album free.

  ‘Give it back!’ George made a grab for it, then drew back his hand. The ring was still on his thumb. He couldn’t risk Jarvis taking that too. He slid it off and stuffed it in the waistband of his pyjamas.

  Jarvis flicked through the pages of the album and gave a grunt. ‘Fat lot of good all these fancy planes are goen’ to be when the Jerries get to work on London.’

  George’s chest tightened. ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Rumour is Mister Hitler’s proper riled up about our brave boys goen’ off and bomben’ Berlin the other day, so he’s plannen’ a little attack of his own.’ Jarvis gave a sarcastic laugh.

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Jarvis’s eyes narrowed to two mean slits. ‘Call me a liar, would yer? We’ll see about that.’ He flipped the album shut. Gripping the paper cover with both hands, he ripped it in half and let it fall to the floor.

  ‘No!’ George jumped off the bed and gathered up the pieces. He stared down at the torn cards and let out a strangled sob. ‘Just you wait till Charlie finds out . . .’

  Jarvis turned down his mouth in a look of mock sorrow and shook his head. ‘But yer big brother’s not here to tell, is he?’ He grabbed George’s clothes and threw them at him. ‘Now hurry up and put these on.’ He stomped over to the door. When he reached it, he
whipped round and shot George a sneering look. ‘And grow yerself some muscles while you’re about it. Those taters aren’t goen’ to bag themselves.’ He turned and clumped off down the stairs.

  George’s eyes filled with angry tears. He blinked them away and pressed the torn halves of the album together to make a ragged join. He could probably glue them, but it wouldn’t be the same. He pushed them back under his pillow and changed into his clothes. Then, slipping the ring into his trouser pocket, he trudged downstairs. As he stepped round into the sun-bright yard, he glanced over at the barn door. His heart squeezed at the thought of Spud chained up in the dark all alone.

  I’ll rescue you soon, boy, I promise.

  It was busy when they arrived in town. There were queues of shoppers outside the butcher’s and grocer’s, and a bunch of Boy Scouts and Girl Guides were traipsing around waving placards and shaking buckets of change in aid of the Spitfire Fund. As the cart rattled past a pair of gossiping women, they looked round and shot sharp looks at Bill Jarvis before turning their backs on him. A bit further on an old man shook his fist and made what sounded like a rude remark. But none of it seemed to bother Jarvis.

  Steering the pony down a side street, he turfed George out with a first sack of potatoes and told him to get selling. But it was hard work going from door to door. Plenty of people were wise to Jarvis’s tricks – stacking a few good taters on top of a bunch of the mouldy ones he’d forced George to ‘tidy’ – and sent George away with a flea in his ear. The only ones who bought off him were old folk who hadn’t been able to grow any of their own. He hated being made to trick them, but if he refused to carry on, he knew he’d be in for a beating.