Shrapnel

by Robert Swindells

  I was breathing more easily. I sat up, screwed up my eyes and shook my head. ‘Wow, that was horrible. Can we get out?’

  Mum shook her head. ‘Raid’s still on. Listen for the all clear, love.’

  Old Florrie stopped screaming and was sobbing in her husband’s arms.

  Dad turned from looking out and gave Mum a hug. ‘That was the one with our name on it, love,’ he told her. ‘Closest old Adolf’ll come to getting us.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ She shivered.

  The bangs had stopped. Another few minutes and the siren sounded the all clear. Dad climbed the three-rung ladder to ground level, leaned in and helped Mum and the old couple out of the shelter. I came last.

  It was dark, but something was on fire a few doors away, and the flickering orange light revealed the state of the garden. Most of it had gone. A great hole yawned between us and the house. The fence which had divided the Andersons’ garden from ours lay flattened among ragged remains of lupins and delphiniums. The houses themselves appeared intact, but weren’t. Only when we’d edged our way round the crater did we notice there was no glass in any of the windows. None in ours, none in the Andersons’.

  ‘Maybe the fronts’ll be all right,’ said Dad, but when he and I had picked our way along the side path through a litter of smashed roof tiles, we found that the blast had blown out every pane there too, and the old couple’s front door was hanging from a single hinge.

  From that night on, I was going to feel completely different about air raids.

  TWELVE

  Duties to Perform

  THEY TOOK US to a rest centre. They do when you’re bombed out. It was a church hall a couple of streets away. Mattresses on the floor, bundles of people’s belongings, a few hard chairs. Volunteers showed us where to put our stuff, brought beakers of tea.

  Some people spent days and weeks in places like this. The Andersons would. We were lucky. Just the one night, or what was left of it, trying to get to sleep with people mumbling and crying all round, then we were off to my gran’s.

  Gran was Mum’s mum. She lived across town, on her own. My grandad had died of flu in 1919. ‘I’ll be glad of the company,’ she said.

  There were only two proper bedrooms, so I had a camp bed in the attic. It was a Wednesday, but I was allowed to miss school. ‘You’ve hardly slept, love,’ said Mum. ‘And anyway we’ll have to investigate buses, it’s too far to walk from here.’

  I wasn’t grumbling, but I was worried. What if one of Raymond’s people tries to contact me and I’m not there? And then there’s the revolver. The blast could easily have knocked it out of the chimney, and there’ll be workmen all over the house soon. One of them’s bound to notice a package in the hearth, then what?

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘Yes, love?’

  ‘Would it be all right if I went to the park for a bit? There’s a balloon crew there, and I know one of the men.’ I played in the park whenever we were at Gran’s. A barrage balloon was sited there, and I’d chatted to one of the airmen.

  ‘I suppose so, Gordon, but you mustn’t get in the men’s way, you know – they have their duties to perform.’

  ‘I know, Mum, I won’t be a nuisance.’

  ‘And watch the time – your gran serves lunch at twelve sharp.’

  ‘I’ll be here, Mum.’

  I don’t usually lie to my parents, but I had no choice. I wasn’t going to the park. I was off back to our house to check on the gun. Then I had to find my brother, tell him where I was staying. When you’re on secret work for the government you have to lie sometimes, and you don’t go playing in the park.

  The house looked bad in daylight. The roof had lost half its tiles, and some of the window frames had been pushed out. One of Raymond’s blackout boards lay cracked in a clump of Michaelmas daisies. And we’d been lucky: the Barkers’ house three doors along was nothing but a burned-out shell. Some men were at work there, bracing a dangerous wall with stout timbers.

  Nothing was happening at our house, which was good. If the gun had fallen out of the chimney, it should still be on the hearth. I started up the path.

  ‘Oi!’ One of the workmen was glaring at me across two front gardens. ‘Where d’you think you’re going?’

  I stopped, flapped a hand at the house. ‘I live here. I need to get something.’

  ‘You need to get right away from there,’ he shouted, ‘that’s all you need to get. Don’t you know it’s dangerous to play around bombed houses – don’t they teach you anything at school? And anyway’ – he scowled – ‘how do I know you’re not one of them looters, eh?’ Looters were people who went into bombed-out houses and pinched valuables.

  I huffed indignantly. ‘I’m not a looter. I told you, this is our house. Everything in it belongs to me and my parents.’

  ‘And what if it falls on you? What then, eh? D’you think it won’t squash you flat because it belongs to your dad?’

  I glanced at the house. ‘Looks all right to me. The walls, I mean.’

  He nodded. ‘Mebbe it does to you, son, but what do you know? It hasn’t been assessed yet, by experts. Blast damage doesn’t always show. I’d be on my way if I was you, before I call the rozzers. Or the Home Guard. They shoot looters, y’know, the Home Guard.’

  I was bursting to tell him I was doing work for the Government. Secret work. But if I did it wouldn’t be secret, would it? I recalled my brother’s words: chaps who think they know what’s what, when actually they know nothing. He was one, this fellow with his fists on his hips, glaring at me. Calling me a looter. I desperately wanted to tell him I was doing vital work, but I knew where my duty lay. Walls have ears, the posters say. His wall maybe – the one he and his mates were busy shoring up.

  I walked away.

  THIRTEEN

  Spitfire Parked Outside

  RAYMOND WASN’T AT Farmer Giles. Nobody was, except the woman behind the counter. It was a quarter past eleven – that dead time between elevenses and lunch. She looked up from spreading margarine on a slice of bread and scraping it off again. ‘Looking for someone, dear?’

  ‘Uh . . . no. Not really. I’ll try later.’ You can’t go in a café and tell the waitress you’re looking for Raymond Price the government agent, can you? I left, crossed the road, walked up and down.

  It was cold. I wished I had the cigarette my brother offered me yesterday, so I could lurk in a doorway like a spy in a film, smoking to look casual. He might not come, whispered a voice inside my head. He doesn’t use the place every day.

  To drown out the voice I thought about my classmates. Wednesday morning, last period. Geography with old Contour. His name was Mr Lines but everybody called him Contour. Well, not everybody. His wife probably didn’t, or the Head. Anyway, he’d be droning on about the North American Grain Belt – picking on someone to point it out on the map, getting ready to bounce the blackboard rubber off the victim’s head when he indicated Greenland or Outer Mongolia. Better the cold street, I told myself, than Contour’s musty room.

  It was twenty to twelve by the clock over the jeweller’s shop when I spotted Raymond. He was walking briskly towards the milk bar with a package under his arm. I made to cross the road, but two lorries came along. By the time they’d lumbered past, my brother was inside Farmer Giles. Through the window I saw him hand the package to the woman. She slipped it under the counter and was drawing a cup of tea from the urn when I walked in.

  ‘Here again, kiddo?’ queried Raymond. ‘What’s up – Jerry hit the school last night or something?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, but he got our house.’

  ‘What?’ He stared at me. ‘Is everybody all right – Mum and Dad?’

  ‘Yes, we were in the shelter and we’ve moved in with Gran. I thought I should let you know.’

  ‘You bet!’ Hollywood talk again. ‘Look here, we’d better sit down for a bit. Tea?’

  We sat over steaming cups. I remembered the package. I nodded towards the waitress. ‘The
lady,’ I murmured, ‘one of us?’

  ‘Eh?’ Raymond frowned, then his brow cleared. ‘Oh, yes, one of us, but sssh!’

  ‘Sorry. It was the package. That’s how I knew.’

  He nodded. ‘Good observation, Gordon, well done.’ He lifted his cup, looked at me through the steam. ‘What’s the house like?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just the windows. And some tiles. Blast.’

  ‘Could be worse then. Council’ll fix that in no time.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve just come from there. Tried to get in, but some workman chased me off. Called me a looter.’

  Raymond laughed. ‘Some looter. What did you want, kiddo?’

  I glanced around. The place was filling up. ‘You know,’ I hissed, ‘the whatsit, up the chimney.’

  He shook his head. ‘You let me worry about that Gordon, all right? Don’t go back to the house, it might collapse on you.’

  ‘All right. Have you got any work for me yet, Raymond?’

  ‘Not yet. Patience is part of the job, we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘At Gran’s, remember.’

  He smiled, nodded. ‘Gran’s it is.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ I said, ‘Gran serves lunch at twelve.’

  He looked at his watch and chuckled. ‘Never make it, kiddo, unless you’ve got the Spitfire parked outside.’

  I was ten minutes late. I offered to make up the time by not washing my hands, but Mum was having none of it. In fact she made me wash my neck as well.

  How many agents does that happen to?

  FOURTEEN

  Sweetheart

  ‘HOW WOULD YOU like a bicycle, sweetheart?’ Sweetheart, for goodness’ sake: Gran hasn’t noticed I’m not four any more.

  I looked at her across the table. ‘Wh-what d’you mean, Gran?’ I’d been nattering for a bike for at least five years.

  Mum broke in. ‘I’ve investigated buses, Gordon, and it’s hopeless. Two changes between here and Foundry Street. You’d have to set off at about half-past six every morning. Your gran thinks she can get a bicycle for you. Not a new one, but it’ll get you to and from school.’

  ‘Wizard!’ I cried. ‘Quite a few chaps bike to school. Girls too, of course.’ I looked at Gran. ‘Where’s the bike now, Gran? Whose is it?’

  She smiled faintly. ‘Well, Gordon, that’s the unfortunate part. My neighbours up the road, Mr and Mrs Myers, had a son called Michael. Lovely boy. He joined the Navy, and was drowned last year when his ship was torpedoed. They’ve put a card in the Post Office window, offering his bicycle for sale. Breaks their hearts to see it in the shed, I suppose, gathering cobwebs.’

  After lunch, Gran popped along to see Mrs Myers. She came back wheeling a Raleigh so smart you wouldn’t know it was second-hand. I was knocked out. ‘It looks brand new, Gran,’ I gasped.

  She nodded, handing the machine to me. ‘Kept all his things nice, Michael Myers.’ She looked me in the eye. ‘His mum and dad’ll see you riding by. They’re bound to wish it was Michael in the saddle, but it might be a bit less sad for them if they notice you’re caring for his bicycle as he would have done. Will you try to remember that, sweetheart?’

  I couldn’t speak for the aching lump in my throat. I nodded, blinked watery eyes and wheeled the hero’s bike to the shed.

  FIFTEEN

  Creepy Little Swot

  I FOUND MYSELF the centre of attention in the schoolyard Thursday morning. Two reasons, both beginning with b: bombed out, and bike.

  ‘Whee!’ shrilled Dicky Deadman as I swept through the gateway. ‘What’s this, Price – Spitfire practice?’ His chums laughed, and the four of them followed me to the bike sheds. I slotted the machine into a stall and fished my gas mask out of the saddlebag. When I turned, the Deadman gang was standing in a semicircle, watching me.

  I think there’d have been trouble if old Hinkley hadn’t picked that moment to appear.

  ‘C’mon,’ muttered Dicky to his chums. ‘Time to vanish.’ By the time the Head reached me, I was alone.

  ‘Morning, Price.’

  ‘Morning, sir.’

  ‘I understand your family was bombed out on Tuesday night, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Everybody well though, eh? No casualties?’

  ‘No, sir. We’re staying with my gran over Hastley way.’ I indicated the bike. ‘That’s why I’ve got this.’

  ‘Hmmm, well,’ he smiled, ‘it’s an ill wind, eh? House badly damaged, is it?’

  ‘Not really, sir: glass and tiles mostly. My dad reckons it’ll be fixed in a jiffy.’

  ‘That’s the spirit. Well – good to see you back amongst us, Price. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, won’t you?’

  There is one thing, sir, I thought but didn’t say. You could give me a year off and buy me flying lessons. Oh, and make Deadman clean the blackboard every afternoon with his tongue.

  As Hinkley walked off, a small crowd gathered. Some sharp-eared tyke had overheard our conversation, and now everybody had questions. How close was the bomb? Did I hear it coming down? Was there a big crater? Had I found its tail, or any good shrapnel? Did I think Jerry was aiming at my dad because he made shell cases?

  I’d love to have said no to that last one – told ’em Jerry was after me because I was working undercover for the government. I didn’t though, of course. If walls have ears, why not bike sheds?

  SIXTEEN

  OHMS

  IT WASN’T THAT hard up to now, working with Raymond. In fact I felt a bit of a fraud, thinking of myself as a government agent, or at least assistant to a government agent, when all I was doing was keeping quiet about the revolver, and not telling Mum and Dad a state secret. I have to say I liked the feeling of knowing something they didn’t though, especially since I was doing it for my country.

  But then something happened which took some of the shine off my pleasure.

  Breakfast time Saturday, the postman pushed an envelope through Gran’s letter slot. Dad brought it to the table. It was long and brown, with a window. Along the top were the letters OHMS. It was addressed to Mr Raymond Price. Our home address had been scribbled out, and somebody had written Bombed out – try 6 Trickett Boulevard, Hastley, which was Gran’s address.

  ‘It’s for Raymond,’ said Mum. ‘Looks official. I wonder what it’s about?’

  ‘I know what it is,’ growled Dad. ‘It’s his call-up papers.’

  ‘But he’s in a reserved occupation.’

  ‘He was, Ethel,’ Dad corrected. ‘He chucked his job, now they want him in uniform. I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘Well – what do we do with it, Frank? I mean, I don’t want him called up – couldn’t we just throw it away, pretend we never got it?’

  Dad shook his head. ‘Certainly not, Ethel. I’ll write Not at this address on it, and post it again.’

  I stared into my porridge and said nothing. It couldn’t be my brother’s call-up papers – he was serving already, but I wasn’t free to tell them that. I watched Dad write on the envelope. He slid it across to me. ‘Pop down to the pillar box with this please, Gordon. When you’ve finished, I mean.’

  I could’ve taken it to Farmer Giles, left it with the woman if Raymond wasn’t there, but what I really wanted to do was open it. OHMS stands for On His Majesty’s Service. It was probably orders, top secret. I didn’t open it – it’s an offence to interfere with somebody else’s mail and besides, I might be putting Mum and Dad in danger. So I posted it, promising myself I’d mention it to my brother next time I saw him.

  Nothing much happened that weekend. Saturday I went to the park, said hello to my balloon crew. There are five of them, all from different parts of Britain, but none from around here. When I mentioned this, Davy from Swansea laughed. ‘It’s what they do in the Forces, see? They ask where you’re from, and post you as far away from home as possible.’

  ‘Aye,’ nodded Bristol Pete, ‘it’s the same with trades. If you was a cook in civvy street they
makes you a mechanic, and if you was a mechanic they puts you in the cookhouse.’ He winked. ‘They found out us five was all scared of balloons when we was kids, so they puts us in charge of a giant one.’

  I told them we’d been bombed out, and asked if they’d bring their balloon to fly over our house once it was repaired. It was a joke, of course – they can’t choose where to go. ‘Our orders are to stay by yer,’ grinned Davy. ‘Keep Jerry off your gran.’

  Sunday morning I biked over to look at our house. I’d polished the Raleigh till it shone, knowing I’d be passing the Myers’ place. I’d like to think they saw me pass and approved, but I didn’t see anybody and of course you can’t stare.

  The house hadn’t been touched, as far as I could see. It being Sunday there were no workmen about, so I decided I’d risk a quick dekko inside. Dad was borrowing a van and driver from Beresford’s in a day or two, to move some of our stuff into storage. I wanted to make sure he wouldn’t find my brother’s revolver.

  It gave me the creeps, going upstairs. Blast damage doesn’t always show, the man had said last Wednesday, but nothing happened.

  There was lots of soot in the hearth – but no package. No gun. To make sure I knelt and felt, and it wasn’t there. Somebody’d been here before me.

  I went to wash my hands in the scullery, but the water was off. There was no electricity either, or gas. Everything else seemed normal – no sign of looting. I wiped my hands on a floor cloth and left, taking the bike past the Myers’ house again.

  SEVENTEEN

  A Maid, for Pete’s Sake

  LIVING AT GRAN’S was absolutely wizard. So was sleeping in the attic and biking to school. The only bind was being a long way from the chum I mentioned before, Norman Robinson.

  Norman didn’t care that my dad hadn’t served in the trenches, or that my brother wasn’t in uniform. All that mattered to him was that I was as mad on aeroplanes as he was. He was thirteen, same as me, but he didn’t go to my school. His dad was a doctor, and Norman attended Woodhouse Grange. Woodlouse Range, the Foundry Street kids called it. Your parents had to pay for you to go there. It was probably worth it though – there were no girls, and it had its own rugger pitch and swimming bath.