by Ross Welford
He looked and humphed in reluctant agreement, before turning his attention back to the hearth, which was a ring of stones. ‘There is not even a proper fireplace. Most homes had one, built up to about this high, at least.’ He held his hand level with his knee.
‘What was the point of that?’
‘I do not know,’ he said, irritated. ‘They just did. Only the poorest people would not have one because you had to buy the stones, but the poorest people did not live in houses like these.’
‘They’d buy stones? But stones are free.’
‘They are not just any stones. If you get a stone from the beach or a river, it might crack apart under the heat and explode. You do not want that happening when you are huddled round the fire for warmth in the winter. You want granite or limestone, and that means paying for it if you do not live near any. And as for that –’ we were outside now and he was pointing to another fireplace, next to the hut – ‘it is much too close to that.’ He pointed at the straw and twig roof. ‘It could go up at any time. No one would put a fire there. In fact I am going to tell them.’
He marched off in the direction of the man in the Saxon costume who had spoken to us before.
‘No, Alfie. No!’ Roxy said. I was curled up with embarrassment inside. He turned and stared at us both intensely.
‘Why ever not? Not only is it historically inaccurate, it poses a significant danger right now.’
I couldn’t bear to watch. He was like one of those busybody old ladies who’ll tell off a young policeman if his shoes aren’t shiny enough. Roxy and I peered out from behind what seemed (to me) a very authentic-looking wheeled cart as Alfie strode up to the guide and tapped him on the shoulder, while he was talking to a group of people who looked like they were from China or somewhere.
Alfie pointed. The guy looked over, then looked down at Alfie and shook his head, making a ‘go away’ gesture with his hand before returning his attention to the group. So Alfie tugged his sleeve. The man was annoyed, I could tell, but Alfie didn’t care and I sort of admired him for that. The group of people began to wander off and this annoyed the man even more, so with a furious expression he followed Alfie to the fire and I overheard part of their conversation.
‘… significant incendiary risk … extinguished …’
‘… I’ll go and speak to my supervisor …’
The guy in the Saxon tunic wandered off in the direction of the visitor centre. Just then, Inigo Delombra and one of his hangers-on appeared from round a corner, each holding a bundle of twigs.
‘Go on, lads,’ said Inigo, ‘hoy it on!’ and, before we could stop them, they each chucked their armfuls onto the fire, which instantly burst into life. ‘Hey, that’s mint that is! I love a massive fire, me! Whoa!’
The fire had gone up alarmingly and was by now dangerously high. When the smoke had cleared, Inigo Delombra and his pals were nowhere to be seen.
‘Look at that,’ Alfie said. ‘One stray spark, and that whole roof will go up. It is as dry as … as …’
‘A dry straw roof?’ said Roxy, with a straight face.
‘Yes. And it will spread to the others. I do not suppose you have seen a whole village burn?’
‘No, Alfie,’ I said. ‘Surprising as it may seem, I haven’t. Have you?’
The words were out of my mouth an instant before I realised what I’d said. Alfie – who saw his own house burn down only weeks earlier – knew more than anyone the true horror of a fire, and I started to apologise.
‘Hey, that came out wrong …’
But he had gone, reappearing a few seconds later with a wooden bucket.
‘Have you seen a tap anywhere?’ he asked, the urgency in his voice clear.
‘There’ll be one at the visitor centre, or in the café.’
‘Too far. There is only one thing for it.’
By now, the flames were really quite high. Alfie had his back to me, but I could see he was fiddling with his trouser flies. He turned his head and called to me over his shoulder.
‘Come on! What are you waiting for? We have got to put it out somehow!’
‘Alfie, you’re mental! It’s a museum. You can’t just … pee all over the exhibits.’
‘If they want to have any exhibits left, then it is my duty. Yours too, Aidan. Come on. Roxy, you are excused.’
He had already started. There was a noisy hissing and a vast cloud of yellow-grey smoke started to rise from the fireplace.
‘Come on!’ he shouted over the noise of the hissing fire. ‘I do not have enough urine in me. I went after lunch.’
I had not been after lunch. In fact I’d been half-heartedly looking for the toilets for a while, so, when I finally started, I released my bladder in a blissful gush. The smoke and steam doubled and rose high above the tops of the huts.
Alfie had finished and done up his flies when we heard the guy in the tunic shout, ‘Oi! What the hell are you doing?’
‘Run!’ said Alfie.
I was mid-stream at that point, in a really big wee that I couldn’t possibly stop.
‘I can’t!’ I wailed, but he was off already and the guy was getting closer.
‘You little toerag!’ he bellowed.
The group of Chinese tourists had returned and at least two of them were taking photos of me in a cloud of wee-smoke at the fireplace, and still it kept coming, making me curse the extra-large Coke I’d drunk.
There was only one thing for it. With all the effort I could summon, I managed to slow the stream so I could tuck everything back into my pants, and I started to run, pee dribbling down my trouser leg. The only way I could get away from the Saxon guy was to push through the group of tourists, but, as soon as I got near, they parted for me, probably because they didn’t want to get wee on them, and that’s when I tripped.
I stumbled forward, half turned and landed on my back in a puddle. My flies were open, everything was hanging out (if you see what I mean) and I was still weeing, watched by a group of astonished Chinese tourists and, a couple of seconds later, by a man dressed in a woollen tunic and fake chainmail.
‘Right, you,’ he said, throwing down his plastic axe and grabbing me by the arm. ‘Come with me.’
A camera flashed, and my humiliation was complete.
Alfie and I were in trouble, although, owing to Alfie being a new kid, and what had happened to him recently, the teachers were inclined to go easy on him and, luckily for me, I think they saw the unfairness of being gentle with Alfie and tough with me. We both got off fairly lightly.
Of course, no one believed us when we said we’d been trying to stop the roof catching fire, and I didn’t say anything about Inigo and his pals fuelling the flames, because just about the worst thing you can do at school is to snitch. Alfie seemed to know that because he kept quiet about that part too. Roxy, very wisely, pretended she hadn’t seen a thing.
We sucked up the telling-off, and being sent to sit in the coach for the rest of the trip. There was talk of a visit to the Head, and a letter home, and Alfie’s social worker being told and all of that, but it was obvious they were just threats.
‘I simply do not understand you,’ said Mr Springham, for once strangely quiet (which made it even more menacing). ‘Were you showing off? Did you think it was funny?’
I hung my head to display a sorrow that I just did not feel. ‘No, sir.’
‘No, sir,’ Alfie repeated.
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Springham.
‘Although we did avert a fire which might have caused significant damage to property and people,’ said Alfie.
Mr Springham controlled himself, and it was such an effort it turned him a weird sort of purple colour.
Going to school is exhausting. It is also one of the most exhilarating experiences of my long life.
I have never been to one before. Not a school like a twenty-first-century school, anyway.
I have been to many ‘schools’, where I have learnt many things.
But a huge build
ing containing more than a thousand children, all learning the same things, which they do not have to pay to attend? No.
By the time it became the law to send your children to school (I have looked it up – it was 1880), I had been reading and writing for centuries.
At first, compulsory education was for children up to ten years old, so – as a boy living as an eleven-year-old – I did not have to go. Then the age was raised to eleven, then twelve, but, so long as you could prove that you could read and write and so on, you still did not have to attend.
By 1918, the year the Great War ended, the education age was again raised, to fourteen. That is when things started to get difficult, and Mam and I had to begin deceiving the authorities about my age, and why I was not at school. We became very good at it, always helped by the fact that I was quite obviously well educated.
And now I find myself at Sir Henry Percy Academy, or ‘Percy Ack’ as everybody – the teachers included – refers to it.
The other children are loud and lively. They are cheeky to the teachers, and the teachers do not seem to mind, although there is one who shouts a lot. The pupils often look at me suspiciously, but nobody is actually unkind, not to my face. Except, that is, for one boy called Inigo Delombra who seems to eat sweets all the time. He passed around my glasses, and he imitates my way of speaking. He pretends it is what he calls ‘banter’, but it is not.
And then there are Aidan Linklater and Roxy Minto, my friends. It feels good to be able to say that.
It is all keeping my mind off Aidan’s Uncle Jasper. I have not seen him again, and I am beginning to think I imagined it all. It is possible. I have been in a strange state of mind.
At school, we are given books for free. Can you believe that? There is a library where you can have any book and some of the stories are wonderful. Everybody is given a meal at midday. Some children go to a ‘Breakfast Club’ where they are given free food. Imagine!
I am not in the Breakfast Club. Instead I get breakfast at Earl Grey House. The other children all eat ‘breakfast cereal’ from different colourful boxes. They tip it into a bowl, and then pour milk all over it and eat it with a spoon.
(You probably know this already, but I am just saying in case you do not.)
The breakfast cereals taste too sweet to me, so Aunty Reet normally makes me eggs.
Sangeeta took me in on the first Monday. She parked the car opposite the school while other children mingled on the pavement, and looked at me closely.
‘You OK with this, Alfie?’ she said. ‘It’s pretty soon after everything.’
For a moment, I had a dreadful fear that she was about to say that I should not go. That I was not ready, or something. For years and years, I have seen children going to school in their uniforms, laughing and shouting. Surely she would not stop me?
‘It is the law, is it not? I have to attend school regularly,’ I said.
She gave a half-smile. ‘Well, yeah. But you know … we’re not … that is, it could wait. A bit.’
‘What else would I do?’
She sighed through her nose and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I know. Look, Alfie …’
‘Yes, Sangeeta?’
‘Is there anything you’re not telling me? I’m just worried that …’
‘No, Sangeeta. I will be fine. Thank you for the drive.’
‘The lift, Alfie. It’s called a lift.’
‘The lift.’
When I glanced back, she was watching me go, biting her bottom lip. She knew something was up.
But that was a problem for later. I was about to learn something much worse and much more immediate.
The time to enact the plan was about to run out.
I’m not sure I have ever seen anyone actually turn white before. It’s one of those things that people say, isn’t it? Like, ‘I nearly died’, or ‘I wet myself laughing’ (although that did happen to Valerie King once, in Year Four).
But generally nobody really turns white. Except Alfie Monk during a talk at school for Local History Month.
He’s pale to begin with is Alfie, and with all the sunshine we’ve been having lately he’s even got a bit sunburnt, but this was something else.
The lady giving the talk said something, Alfie gasped and, when I looked across at him, the colour had disappeared from his cheeks. It was horrible. He was whitish-grey and his mouth started moving as if he was saying something, but there was no noise.
What happened was this.
It was a warm afternoon and the school assembly hall was baking hot, and it still smelt of school dinners. Everybody was a bit restless, and nobody was all that keen on listening to someone give a talk called: North-eastern Archaeology: From Yesterday to Tomorrow!
(It was the exclamation mark that did it: a sad attempt at cheeriness.)
Mr Springham announced the speaker, Dr Susannah Heinz, and I immediately swung my head round to look for Roxy. Had she recognised her? Roxy grinned back.
It was Sue from our street. Sue of Sue and Pru the cat ladies! She wasn’t wearing her huge sweater and jeans, but a sensible trouser suit.
Even before the talk had started, Mr Springham had already had to shout ‘BE QUIET!’ twice and make Inigo Delombra swap places so he could keep an eye on him. Worse, the blinds were down so that Dr Heinz could show us some slides and she had a quiet, reedy voice with that strong foreign accent.
I felt sorry for her, really. She looked as though she’d be a sweet old aunty.
Worst of all – for her – was that she was nervous, and it was obvious. It was like Year Seven was a wild dog that could smell fear.
‘Hello, children,’ she began, and I thought, Bad start.
‘Who can tell me vot an archaeologist is?’ she asked.
‘A boring old fart,’ said Inigo Delombra, not quite quietly enough. I swear Dr Heinz heard, and I felt awful for her. No hands went up.
‘Vell, er … erm … archaeology is … is the study of human history through the excavation of the sings ve have left behind. These can be sings zat are dug up, or sometimes ruined buildings and monuments. In fact I often say to my friend Prudence that I’ll never be rich because my career is in ruins!’
She grinned and waited in vain for a laugh. Instead 120 blank faces stared back at her. Five seconds later, Alfie said, ‘Ruins! Ha!’ and everyone turned to look at him.
Awkward.
Alfie was definitely the only person in the whole room who was interested. He leant forward in his seat, hanging on Dr Heinz’s every word as she went on and on about digging up stuff.
She showed us a trowel. Woo-hoo. And a paintbrush that she said was used to brush dirt off stuff.
And then the slides. Endless slides. And still Alfie didn’t get bored.
‘So here we have a site zat I helped to excavate back in 1990, in ze village of Saxton, near Towton, vich is about ninety miles from here, so not werry local.’
It was a picture of another hole in the ground so far as I could see, and next to it was a grinning young Dr Heinz with thick glasses.
‘And who can tell me vot happened in Towton?’
Alfie’s hand – alone – shot up. ‘The Battle of Towton!’ he yelled.
‘Indeed – sank you. The Battle of Towton. It is often called ze most deadly battle in British history, vere upwards of twenty-five sousand men are said to have died in a single day, although my personal belief is that zis is a vild exaggeration …’
‘Excuse me?’ Alfie’s hand had gone up again.
‘Yes?’
‘It was more like forty to fifty thousand people. It was huge.’ People turned to look at the kid who was daring to contradict the expert.
But he had learnt his lesson from the day before at The Saxon Experience, and now he began to retreat. ‘That is, erm … so I have heard.’
‘Well, ze various records are not in agreement, but I know vot I sink,’ said Dr Heinz, with an air of finality.
‘And I know what I saw,’ said Alfi
e. People had started to chortle, so he added, ‘On television once.’ It prompted Mr Springham to stand up.
‘That’s enough, Alfie Monk! Pipe down and show some respect!’
Alfie blushed bright red, which was a contrast to his colour only two minutes later.
It was nearly at the end of the talk and Dr Heinz said, ‘And finally …’ prompting a relieved ‘Yessss!’ from a few people which she must have heard.
‘After all zis, you’re probably wondering vot next for north-eastern archaeology? Vell, let me tell you briefly about our project on Coquet Island werry near here.’
At that, Alfie – who had shrunk into his seat a bit thanks to his telling-off from Mr Springham – sat bolt upright as though his chair was electrified. Another picture popped up on the PowerPoint, of a little square lighthouse, and some surrounding buildings, painted white with crenellated walls, like a cartoon castle.
‘Zis, children, is ze lighthouse on Coquet Island, but it is believed to be built on ze site of a medieval chapel. Back then, it vas known as Cockett Island …’
I actually yawned. If this was interesting to Alfie, it wasn’t to me. On she went for a minute or so.
‘… vill be commencing our dig zis summer, excavating an area from here to here …’ She was pointing at a map now. ‘Ve expect to unearth artefacts from early inhabitants of the island and perhaps even …’ she paused for effect, then added, in a spooky voice, ‘… a skeleton or two!’
Nobody reacted. We were past caring. I glanced across at Alfie and that’s when I saw that he’d turned pale. Was it the mention of skeletons? I mean, he was still mourning his mum: this may have been too close to home.
It was what she said next that prompted Alfie’s biggest reaction.
‘… before all zat, though, I vill be conducting a personal excavation of some caves beneath the main site. It vas not unknown for caves to be used for hiding treasures, and after all the vords excavate and cave are both derived from ze Latin cavare …’
With a loud scraping of his chair, Alfie got to his feet and stumbled to the door. Once again, everyone turned to look. I saw Mr Springham draw a breath to shout at him, but Alfie got in first. ‘Sorry, sir. I do not feel well.’