Chapter Three
Highbury Boys Grammar School was spread out on the corner of Highbury Grove, just a stone’s throw from Islington’s Upper Street. Its grey stone façade was depressing and unwelcoming and even during the height of summer, the majestic sight of the huge oak and elm trees bordering the main road could not hide the sheer awfulness of the building.
The interior was no better. Classrooms were not only too small to take more than thirty boys in each, but they were freezing cold in the winter months because the only form of heating in the school was coal fires and, during lessons, these were usually blocked from view by the teaching staff warming their own rumps. In the early part of 1944, a doodle-bug had landed on the block of flats nearby but, much to the disappointment of the pupils, the building itself withstood the worst of the explosion.
Frankie hated school. He couldn’t see the point of sitting in a crowded classroom for six hours a day and to him Highbury Grammar was just a place where he could meet up with pals and have as entertaining a time as possible. However, this Monday morning was somehow different. He was much more subdued than usual, and even in ‘Boggy’ Marsh’s maths lesson he found himself making a half-hearted attempt to understand what boring old algebra was all about.
It was not until Mr Wood’s English lesson however that the Prof first noticed the peculiar mood Frankie was in. The two boys shared one of the twenty double desks in the ice-cold classroom.
‘The English novel,’ Woodsie proclaimed pompously, ‘is admired in every country throughout the world. Without doubt, this country had produced some of the finest writers in the world. Shakespeare, the Brontës, Henry Fielding, Jane Austen . . .’ At this point his mind went blank, but, as usual, he was able to disguise the fact by quickly folding his arms, revealing the leather patches on the elbows of his rather tatty sports-coat. ‘Right, let’s have you then!’ he called, scanning the classroom. ‘Some more English writers. Names! Names!’
Prof’s rather squeaky voice called out first. ‘Charles Dickens, sir,’ he said. The Prof, after all, had won a scholarship to gain his place at the school.
‘Right – Dickens!’ Woodsie’s beady eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. ‘More!’ he yelled.
A sea of hands was now raised and names were called back at him from all directions.
‘Sir! Charles Kingsley!’
‘Sir! Agatha Christie!’
Sir! Oscar Wilde!’
Woodsie leapt up from his perched position on the guard-rail in front of the fireplace. ‘Don’t be an ass, boy! Oscar Wilde was Irish. Come on! What’s the matter with the lot of you?’ Woodsie was now at his intolerable worst. ‘What about the rest of them? What about Thackeray? What about Robert Louis Stevenson?’
‘Sir!’
Prof swung with a start to look at Frankie. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen his friend hold up his hand in class.
Woodsie too was taken aback. He had never liked Frankie Lewis. Not since the first day the boy arrived at the school after winning one of the Government’s so-called ‘Special Places’, a scheme set up during the war as a kind of compensation for not quite passing the scholarship exam. To the English master, Highbury Grammar School was no place for a boy whose idea of the world was fashioned out of the make-believe tinsel and technicolour dreams of the Gaumont, Astoria, Savoy, and Marlborough cinema screens around Islington. ‘Yes, Lewis?’ Woodsie clearly resented having to respond to the boy who had fulfilled almost all his expectations of non-achievement.
‘Please, sir. Robert Louis Stevenson wasn’t English. ’E was a Scottish writer.’
A sea of disbelieving faces immediately turned to look at Frankie. No one had ever dared to argue with Woodsie, let alone correct him. And Frankie Lewis of all people!
For a brief moment, Woodsie did not reply. His beady eyes were lowered, his expression like marble. Then quite suddenly, without moving from his perched position on the guard-rail, his eyes flicked up and darted across to Frankie. ‘How perceptive of you, Lewis,’ he said, with a suggestion of the smile that could fell any victim stone dead from twenty paces. ‘I presume you can also tell us precisely where Robert Louis Stevenson was born?’
Frankie was already beginning to wish he had never spoken. But as he opened his mouth a shaft of wintry sunshine beamed through the window beside him. It was as though a spotlight had been turned directly on to him for his reply. ‘’E was born in Edinburgh, sir. November 13th, 1850.’
There was an astonished gasp from the entire class. Prof, always protective of Frankie, quickly lowered his eyes, covered his mouth with one of his hands and whispered, ‘Don’t, Frankie!’
But it was too late. Woodsie was on the attack. He raised himself up from the guard-rail, and moved slowly between the rows of desks. ‘Congratulations, Lewis. I had no idea you were such an authority on Scottish writers.’ He reached Frankie’s desk, crossed his arms, and stared straight at the boy. ‘Perhaps you can tell us the titles of some of the books written by Robert Louis Stevenson?’
Prof bit his lip hard. There was nothing he could do to help Frankie now.
Frankie felt a tight band across his chest. He was only a short breath away from having an asthma attack. ‘’E wrote Kidnapped, sir. And Dr Jekyll and Mr ’Yde.’ He was starting to wheeze. ‘’E also wrote Treasure Island.’
Woodsie remained stone-faced and his large ears seemed to wiggle as he tensed his jaw. ‘Did he now?’ He unfolded his arms and leaned with one hand on Frankie’s desk. As he did so, Prof moved out of his way, almost stifled by the raged heat from the English master’s body. ‘And would you care to tell us what Treasure Island is all about, Lewis?’ leered Woodsie, moving in for the kill.
Frankie took a deep breath and wheezing badly, replied, ‘It’s about this pirate, sir. ’Is name’s Long John Silver. ’E tries to stop Jim ’Awkins from findin’ the ’idden treasure.’
‘Fascinating! Well done, Lewis!’ Woodsie turned away and made his way back to the fireplace, still calling out his remarks to Frankie. ‘And who played the part of Long John Silver?’
Frankie looked puzzled. ‘Sir?’
Woodsie reached the fireplace, and resumed his sitting position on the guard-rail. ‘The film, Lewis. The film of Treasure Island. Wasn’t it on at some picture-house around here lately?’
For some reason, Frankie deeply resented this particular jibe, despite the fact that Woodsie was well-known for his sarcasm. Sitting upright in his seat and peering over the heads of the boys in front of him, he started to protest. ‘Yes, sir, but—’
Woodsie was far too vain to allow any further discussion. ‘Since you are an authority on the works of Robert Louis Stevenson, I think it would be a good idea for us all to take the subject for tonight’s homework.’ Smiling broadly at the entire class, he called, ‘Four foolscap pages, please.’
If looks could kill, Frankie would have been struck stone dead by every boy in the room. But the moment was saved by the distant wail of the air-raid siren coming from Highbury Corner Police station, a sound they rarely heard these days. Almost immediately the siren wail was picked up by the ringing of handbells throughout the school, and every boy in the room hurriedly left his desk and made for the door.
‘No rushing!’ yelled Woodsie above the clatter of boys’ feet on the wooden floorboards. ‘Did you hear what I said? Take – your – time!’ Nonetheless, Woodsie wasn’t far behind them.
Despite Headmaster ‘Boggie’ Marsh’s instructions that air-raid drills were to be carried out ‘in a quiet and orderly manner’, the excited yells and the clattering hundreds of feet clip-clopping down the stairs into the bowels of the old Victorian building, echoed stunningly from the walls. Most of the pupils were leaping down the stairs two at a time, but Frankie and the Prof took their time.
‘You must’ve been out of your mind!’ yelled Prof, his voice battling to be heard over the sound of cat-calls, whistles, and excited laughter. ‘You know what happens when you try to
pick a fight with Woodsie.’
‘I wasn’t tryin’ ter pick a fight wiv no one,’ protested Frankie, avoiding being pushed down the stairs by two rowdy kids from one of the lower forms who were trying to pass in a hurry. ‘But Woodsie was wrong, Prof an’ that’s all there is to it.’
But how come you know so much about Robert Louis Stevenson – where he was born, and all that stuff?’
‘It was in the front cover of the book.’
‘Book? What book? What are you talking about?’
‘Treasure Island!’ Frankie came to a halt on the stairs, allowing the stream of boys to push past at a relentless pace. ‘She gave it ter me. The woman in 19 ’Adleigh. ’An you know what? The book’s much better than the film.’
The Prof stared through his tortoiseshell specs in disbelief. ‘She gave you a book?’ There was shrill incredulity in his voice. ‘The old Kraut in 19 Hadleigh Villas gave you a book?’
At the bottom of the stairs they had to join a long queue of boys who were slowly shuffling into the air-raid shelter.
‘I told yer the uvver day,’ said Frankie, making quite sure he could not be overheard. ‘She collects books – lots of ’em. You should just see ’er ’ouse. It’s like walkin’ inter a library or somefin’.
Prof was thoroughly curious. ‘Frankie, you didn’t tell me the old girl gave you a book. All you said was that she dragged you into the house and gave you a good telling off.’
‘She did!’ Frankie was beginning to get irritated. ‘But she give me a book ’cos she said reading was far better than goin’ ter the pictures. Now give over, Prof – I don’t wanna keep talkin’ about it!’
The air-raid shelter was no comfort to anyone, for it was nothing more than a large stone hall surrounded by what looked like Victorian prison cells. Most of the boys imagined that it had been used as some kind of children’s borstal in the old days and nobody seriously thought for one moment that if there should be a direct hit by a doodle-bug, or a V2-rocket, there was even the remotest possible chance of survival. However, it at least gave the impression of being somewhere safe to go, even though it was bitterly cold in winter, with no form of heating. Most of the boys crouched on the floor in any available space they could find, and that included the empty cells, each of which was lit with nothing more than a bare electric light bulb. And there was even less space today, for a class of twenty or so girls from the nearby Highbury Hill Girls’ School was among the shelterers. Because of the emergency exchange system between the two schools they had come over for one of old Charlie Garrett’s history lessons. Both schools adored Charlie, for he was a real character, always sucking one loose front tooth.
‘It’s funny how I’ve never seen the old Kraut ’round our way before.’ Prof, scarf covering his head and ears, was shivering with the cold. He was a delicate boy with a wonky heart, the result of a bout of rheumatic fever when he was small. But at least it got him excused from School sports, a subject he loathed. ‘I mean, I’ve been past that jumble shop in Hornsey Road dozens of times, but I had no idea it was her running the place.’
Frankie wasn’t paying much attention to his pal. His eye was fixed on a group of girls from ‘the Hill’ sitting just opposite him. In particular there was one girl who fascinated him. She was about fifteen years old, with bright, violet-coloured eyes and long blonde hair and she kept her eyes lowered all the time, only looking up when she thought that Frankie wasn’t watching her.
‘I heard that the woman who runs that shop lost her husband at Dunkirk . . .’ The Prof’s nose was running and he wiped it with his sleeve. ‘My Auntie said he was an officer or something. Buried up at Finchley.’
Frankie didn’t answer.
‘How come they allow a Kraut to run a shop right in the middle of London?’ Prof persisted.
Suddenly, Frankie turned on him, eyes blazing. ‘She’s not a Kraut, Prof! Why can’t you stop callin’ ’er that? She’s English! She told me she was ’an I believe her.’
Frankie’s raised voice caused the blonde girl to look up with a start. But when Frankie turned to look back at her, she lowered her eyes shyly.
Prof felt quite hurt at being talked to in such a way by Frankie who was supposed to be his pal. So he rested his head against the stone wall behind him, closed his eyes, and for a full minute didn’t say another word. But eventually, he couldn’t resist speaking. ‘Have you told Jeff and the others yet?’
Frankie was still watching the girl opposite. ‘What about?’
‘About the old – about the woman in the jumble shop.’
Frankie turned briefly. ‘’Course I told ’em. But they only took the piss out of me – as usual. It wouldn’t ’ave ’appened if Jeff ’adn’t got me ter knock on that door.’ It was at times like this that Frankie was grateful that out of the Merton Street gang, only he and Prof had places at Highbury Grammar School.
Prof decided to pursue the subject no more. All of a sudden he felt lonely. Frankie was his best pal, probably his only real pal, and he hated it when Frankie snapped at him.
Frankie was more and more aware that the girl sitting opposite was sneaking more and more sly looks at him and on one occasion, he accidentally caught her glance, and she actually tried to smile at him. Frankie immediately panicked and quickly lowered his eyes to the stone floor. Girls didn’t really mean much to Frankie, except his sister Helen of course. But she was different. Helen was more like a mate to him, like any boy. This girl was odd though. Her looking at him all the time gave him a funny feeling, something he hadn’t felt before.
‘Are you comin’ on the trip on Sunday, then?’ The Prof was aware of the girl opposite, and was irritated that she was attracting Frankie’s attention.
Frankie turned with a start. ‘Trip? What trip?’
‘We’re all biking over to Hackney Marshes – depending on the weather, of course. Didn’t Jeff tell you?’
‘No. Nobody told me.’ Frankie felt a dull ache in his stomach. Once again the Merton Street gang were going off on a Sunday bike ride – and because he was the only one without a bike, he couldn’t go. ‘Anyway, yer know I couldn’t come,’ he snapped irritably.
‘Well, maybe you can persuade your old man to buy you that Raleigh. It’s still in Pascall’s window. I saw it over the weekend.’
Frankie didn’t answer. How could he tell Prof that there wasn’t a chance in hell that his father could afford to buy that Raleigh Sports bike for him. Frankie firmly believed that dreams never came true.
Prof sensed Frankie’s depression. ‘If you want, I could ask the man downstairs at my place if you could borrow his bike. He doesn’t use it much. He’s far too fat.’
Frankie looked up, his eyes were shining with excitement. ‘Yer mean it, Prof? Yer really mean it?’
‘Why not? It’s a bit of an old clanger, though. Only one speed. But it’d get you there. We could have a good time, Frankie. How about it? Will you come?’
Before Frankie had the chance to answer, ‘Boggy’ Marsh’s voice echoed out from the other end of the corridor. ‘Keep the chatter down, you two!’ In a flash he was upon Frankie and the Prof, his schoolmaster’s gown trailing around his short, stubby legs as he walked. ‘If you concentrated a little more on your maths, Lewis, perhaps you wouldn’t have quite so much to say!’
Frankie lowered his head, and mumbled ‘Sir’ apologetically. Ever since he started at the school, Frankie had loathed ‘Boggy’. To Frankie, he was a headmaster straight out of a horror film but in reality Mr Marsh was simply a strict disciplinarian, whose obsessions were religion and mathematics. Fingering his horn-rimmed spectacles, ‘Boggy’ turned and floated back down the corridor and, as soon as he was out of range, Frankie made a rude sign at him with two fingers. This immediately caused the girls sitting opposite to snigger.
‘Boggy’ was hardly out of sight when a sudden distant explosion shook the entire building. Frankie and the Prof immediately threw themselves face down onto the stone floor, and everyone else, including t
he girls from ‘the Hill’ did likewise. Nobody panicked, but as small bits of ceiling plaster fluttered down onto them, Frankie yelled out, ‘We’ve been hit!’
‘No! We’re all right!’
In the eerie silence that followed, Frankie looked up to see who had spoken. The hall, corridors, and cells were full of young faces, some half-giggling, others fraught with anxiety.
‘We’re all right,’ called the voice again. It was the young girl from ‘the Hill’ sitting opposite Frankie, smiling reassuringly at him. ‘I think it was quite a way off.’
Frankie didn’t know how to react. Somehow he felt embarrassed that he had shown fear. ‘I know that,’ he snapped angrily. ‘I’m not stupid!’
Half-an-hour later, the ‘All Clear’ siren had sounded, and the boys of Highbury Grammar were swarming out through the school gates. Soon the Highbury Grove and St Paul’s Roads were seething with mauve school blazers and caps with black and mauve badges showing the school motto: ‘Ne absiste’ – ‘Never Surrender’. As Frankie made his way home down the Holloway Road, leather satchel thrown carelessly over one shoulder, the idea of surrendering to a girl from Highbury Hill Fields School was stubbornly far from his mind.
The untypically clear blue November sky above was streaked with a long white vapour trail, which gradually spread out and dispersed into a tiny white puff of cloud. It was as though a huge, mystical phoenix had passed by high over the roofs and chimneypots, leaving a spell of magic in its wake. But this had been no phoenix. It was the mark of something far more deadly, silent and ferocious.
The final destination of yet another of Hitler’s new secret weapons, the hated V–2 rocket, was a row of terraced houses in a working-class district on the other side of war-torn London, where the ‘magic’ was certainly not felt by its unsuspecting victims.
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