Shrapnel

by Robert Swindells

  Woodhouse Grange boys were supposed to be snobs, but Norman wasn’t, and neither were his parents: they wouldn’t have let him play with me if they had been. What we did was buy kits to make balsa aero models. Not the flying ones some chaps made, which never look like the real thing. Ours were perfect little replicas you painted with actual aero dope, then in authentic camouflage and hung on threads from your bedroom ceiling. Mine were in our empty house. Eleven of them: some British, some German. I couldn’t rescue them without my parents knowing I’d been inside. I was hoping Dad might collect them when he went with the van.

  We usually worked on our models together, Norman and me, in his playroom at the top of their house, which was like a mansion. They even had a maid, for Pete’s sake.

  Anyway, that Sunday afternoon I decided to call at Norman’s. I wanted to show him my bike, and tell him where we’d gone. He might not even know we’d been bombed out.

  I rode the same route I’d taken that morning. It was a cool, damp day. At the Robinsons’ I left my bike at the gate, crunched up the gravel path and rang the bell.

  ‘Oh hello, Gordon.’ The maid smiled. ‘Norman’s been looking for you. Step inside and I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  I nodded. ‘Thanks, Sarah.’ She hurried away and I gazed around, as I always did. I was standing on a chequered floor of black and white marble, in an entrance hall you could fit our entire house into. There were gilded mirrors, pictures in heavy frames, little antique tables polished to a glow. On one of these stood an ivory telephone. It was like a millionaire’s house in a film. You kept expecting George Sanders to appear at the turn of the grand staircase, or Flora Robson. Norman came instead, sliding down the banister with his shirt-tail fluttering. It wasn’t the same somehow.

  ‘Gordon, you old rotter – I thought you were dead!’ He pounded my back, grinning like an idiot. ‘I went to your house, it was in ruins. Nobody knew where you’d gone. Did you see the bomber – was it a Dornier?’

  I bent under his delighted blows, laughing like a loon. ‘Of course I didn’t see it, you ass, I was in the shelter. We’re at my gran’s in Hastley. I got a bike.’

  ‘A bike?’ Norman looked at me. ‘Come down with the bomb, did it?’

  ‘No, you moron. My gran bought it from a neighbour so I could get to school. Come and look.’

  We capered round each other, throwing dummy punches, kicking up gravel, down to the gate.

  ‘Oh, I say!’ He gazed at the sleek machine. ‘It’s a beauty, Gordon. A Raleigh. Looks new too.’ He smiled. ‘Lucky you.’

  He was being kind, of course. His bike was new, the latest model, with a three-speed gear and everything, but Norman wasn’t a show-off. It was one of the things I admired about him.

  Walking back to the house, he said, ‘I got a new kit the other day. Junkers 87. Haven’t started it yet.’

  I grinned. ‘A Stuka! I’ve always wanted a Stuka. They look so . . . evil somehow, with those cranked wings and bow-legs: like iron vultures.’

  ‘I say!’ He looked at me. ‘Never had you down as a blessed poet, Gordon. Iron vultures. Mind if I pinch that line, old chap? Go down well at school – might even get it in the mag.’

  I shrugged. ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Fair’s fair then,’ he smiled, ‘you can lend a hand with my Stuka. There’s a rumour Sarah’s liberated a packet of chocolate biscuits from somewhere, needs help disposing of them. Come on.’

  EIGHTEEN

  Relocated

  I SANDED DOWN the fuselage while Norman worked on the wings. Kits came with paper plans, showing cross sections of the fuselage at various points. This was so you could shape the thing correctly from the rough block of balsa provided. If you followed the plans carefully you ended up with a model, one seventy-sixth full size, that looked pretty authentic.

  ‘So,’ said Norman, squinting along the wing section he was shaping, ‘what’re you up to when you’re not being bombed out, Gordon?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing special, chum. School, snakes and ladders, prunes and custard.’ I’d love to have told him what my brother was doing, but of course I couldn’t. ‘What about you?’

  He blew balsa dust off the wing, grinned. ‘Three things mostly – homework, homework and homework. Oh – and there’s also homework.’ We laughed at our boring lives.

  The maid came tapping up the uncarpeted stairs. She carried in a silver tray with a jug of home-made lemonade, two glasses and a plate of chocolate biscuits.

  ‘Thanks, Sarah,’ said Norman. ‘Where’d you find the gorgeous biscuits?’

  The girl smiled. ‘Ah, now that’d be telling.’

  ‘Tell, then.’

  ‘Telling might mean no more chocolate biscuits.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because’ – Sarah rubbed the side of her nose – ‘when somebody finds chocolate biscuits in wartime, somebody else has probably lost them.’

  ‘You mean they’re stolen?’

  ‘Not stolen, Norman. Relocated, I suppose you could say.’

  ‘Relocated?’ Norman laughed. ‘I think you’ve been a naughty girl, Sarah.’ He offered the plate. ‘Here, take one for yourself, and go on being naughty till this bally war is over.’

  By tea time the Junkers was assembled, but nude. They’re always black in photos; this one looked strange in blond wood – like the ghost of a Stuka. We gazed at it.

  ‘Come round tomorrow evening if your people will let you,’ said Norman. ‘We’ll paint it and stick the transfers on.’ He grinned. ‘With any luck, Sarah might have more goodies squirreled away.’ He came out with me and waved as I wobbled off.

  ‘Where have you been, Gordon?’ asked Gran when I got in. I’d three people quizzing me now, instead of two.

  ‘At Norman’s, Gran. We’re building a model plane.’ I looked at Dad. ‘Talking of model planes, Dad, d’you think you could collect mine from the house when you go with the van?’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He was filling his pipe. ‘Depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On how much time we have, the condition of the staircase, the state of your room.’ He tamped down tobacco with a forefinger. ‘Blast might’ve blown ’em right off the ceiling, y’know – smashed ’em to smithereens.’

  ‘No, they’re—’ I stopped myself in the nick of time. ‘They were pinned quite securely, Dad, I’m sure they’ll have survived.’

  ‘Well then.’ He struck a match, sucked the flame into the bowl of his pipe. ‘We’ll see.’

  I hate that, don’t you? We’ll see. Leaves you none the wiser.

  It was powdered eggs for tea, scrambled, on toast. They come out watery grey, like something the cat brought up. I forced them down though, foiling Hitler’s invasion plans once more.

  NINETEEN

  Two Half-Crowns

  AFTER SCHOOL MONDAY I cycled into town to see Raymond. Mum didn’t know yet how long it ought to take me to get to Gran’s, so I needn’t watch the time too closely. I’d scrounged two Woodbines and a match from Linton Barker, who claims he’s smoked since he was six. I chained the Raleigh to a lamppost across from Farmer Giles and stood in the doorway of a vacant shop, smoking like Humphrey Bogart.

  My brother approached the milk bar at twenty to five. I blew out a cloud of smoke, dropped the tab-end, ground it under my shoe and crossed the street with my hands in the pockets of my mac and the collar turned up. It was dusk.

  Raymond was at his usual table. Two clippies sat in the window, which was crisscrossed with sticky tape. The same woman was behind the counter. There was nobody else.

  ‘Gordon.’ He didn’t smile or say sit down.

  I sat anyway, leaned across the table. ‘A letter came for you.’

  ‘To Gran’s?’

  ‘Redirected.’

  ‘Have you got it?’

  ‘No, Dad re-posted it.’

  ‘Not addressed to me here, I hope.’

  ‘’Course not, he doesn’t know you come here. He put, not at this
address. He reckons it was your call-up papers.’

  Raymond nodded. ‘Probably was.’

  ‘But . . .?’ I looked at him. ‘You’re called up already, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes, but you see . . .’ He glanced across at the clippies, dropped his voice. ‘The Secret Service is completely separate from the ordinary Forces, Gordon. The conscription types won’t know I’ve been recruited. The fewer people who know that, the better.’

  ‘So if you don’t turn up – for your medical and that – they won’t send the police?’

  He shook his head. ‘Good grief, I hope not, but if they do you mustn’t say anything. Don’t let on you see me here – or anywhere. In fact, you’d better stop coming here.’

  ‘But I thought . . . how will I know when there’s work for me to do?’

  He gripped my wrist. ‘There is work for you to do. Listen carefully.’

  My heart kicked me in the ribs and I gulped. ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Good. You still building model planes?’

  ‘Yes – me and Norman.’

  ‘Never mind Norman. He mustn’t know anything about the orders I’m going to give you. Understand?’

  ‘Y . . . yes, Raymond.’

  ‘Right. In a minute I’ll pass you some money. You’re to wait till Saturday, then go to Carter’s model shop and buy a Frog Skymaster kit.’

  ‘But . . .?’ I shook my head. ‘Frog make flying models, we build solids.’

  He tightened his grip on my wrist. ‘I don’t care what we do, Gordon. This isn’t about we – it’s about you, working solo, undercover and under orders.’ He looked me in the eye. ‘They don’t come from me, these orders. I only pass them on. The people they come from expect them to be carried out, and they don’t mess around. Let them down and the consequences will be severe. I won’t be able to protect you. Do you understand?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes I do, Raymond. Sorry.’

  ‘That’s all right then. You will buy a Frog Skymaster. You will take it home and say you bumped into your brother on the street, and he gave you some cash in case he doesn’t see you before your birthday. That’s how you got the money for the kit. OK so far?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Good. You will assemble the model at home, or at Gran’s if you’re still living there. You will do this very carefully, because your Skymaster must be built exactly according to the instructions provided with the kit.’

  ‘I understand.’ A model plane – what’s that got to do with forming a secret army?

  ‘Righto, here’s the cash.’ He slid two half-crowns across the table. ‘Off you toddle, and don’t flash that money around – it isn’t ours.’

  I looked at him. ‘But what do I do with the plane when it’s built, Raymond? I don’t get it.’

  He lit a cigarette, inhaled, talked smoke. ‘Follow orders. You’ll be contacted. Don’t come here again. Goodbye.’

  TWENTY

  Cabbage Casserole

  IT WAS PITCH dark as I swerved through Gran’s gateway.

  ‘Sorry, Gran,’ I said as I walked through the kitchen. ‘Long haul from Foundry Street.’

  ‘I know, Gordon, don’t worry.’ She and Mum were peeling potatoes. You aren’t supposed to – it’s wasteful, but Gran says potato skins give her the green-apple quickstep. I looked at Mum. ‘Is it all right if I go over to Norman’s after tea, Mum?’

  ‘Have you no homework, love?’

  ‘Yes, Mum, but it’s only science. I’ll do it now. We’re painting a Stuka.’

  ‘What, in science?’

  ‘No.’ I laughed. ‘I mean, me and Norman are painting a Stuka.’

  ‘Ah.’ Mum nodded. ‘So what’s your homework?’

  ‘Oh, just a labelled diagram – an orange with zinc and copper rods stuck in it – wires attached to the rods, and a flashlight bulb on the other end.’ I grinned. ‘The bulb flickers, we did the experiment.’

  Gran shook her head. ‘Different when I was at school. Frogspawn, we did in science.’

  ‘Not in October though, Mum,’ said Mum.

  The old lady frowned. ‘No, it’d be autumn leaves in October, I expect.’

  Dad came in at half past five and we had our meal. It was cabbage casserole, which is exactly as exciting as it sounds. Dad made me wipe the dishes for Gran before he’d let me go. ‘And think on,’ he growled as I fitted my cycle clips, ‘eight o’clock and not a minute later. Home Guard shot a lad the other night, mistook him for a saboteur.’

  Mum looked at him. ‘Where was that, Frank? I never heard about that.’

  ‘Not far away, Ethel. It wasn’t in the paper – bad for morale.’

  ‘You be careful then, love,’ said Mum. ‘No good being in a reserved occupation and getting shot by your own side.’

  I’m not in a reserved occupation like Dad, but I didn’t say anything – I’d have been there all night. I turned the Raleigh round and set off, pedalling slowly so I wouldn’t look like a saboteur, wondering how a Frog Skymaster was going to help England win the war.

  ‘I’ve got to leave at a quarter to eight,’ I told Norman as we climbed the stairs.

  ‘It’s after six now,’ he protested. ‘We can’t finish the Stuka in an hour and a half.’

  ‘I know. You could let me start, and finish it when I’ve gone.’

  So that’s what we did. I doped the 87’s underside duck-egg blue while Norman mooched about, adjusting the blackout curtain and choosing where the Stuka would hang among his other planes. Sarah had found no more chocolate biscuits, so all we got was a glass of milk apiece at seven o’clock. The excitement nearly killed us.

  I could have livened up the evening no end if I were free to discuss my other life. They don’t mess around. Let them down and the consequences will be severe. I won’t be able to protect you. You will buy a Frog Skymaster. Don’t come here again. Goodbye.

  Wouldn’t my chum be surprised?

  TWENTY-ONE

  All Spuds and No Meat

  AS I LAY in bed that night, I realized my new status was more worrying than exciting. There’s not much point in having a glamorous job if you can’t bask in the glory. And since the whole point of being a secret agent is that nobody must know, there’s really no glamour at all. I mean, I don’t suppose it’s much fun being a fighter pilot really, but at least fighter pilots have wings on their tunics so everybody knows how dashing they are. Being undercover’s like being a fighter pilot but wearing a pinstripe suit and carrying a rolled umbrella.

  Who were they, these chaps who don’t mess around? And what exactly did that mean? What if I let them down by accident, what would they do – shoot me? I’m only thirteen, for goodness’ sake.

  I never meant to get involved with people who don’t mess around. Old Whitfield’s tough enough for me, and Dicky Deadman. I’m not a hero. Perhaps I ought to tell Raymond I’ve changed my mind.

  Can’t though, can I? Don’t come here again. Goodbye. I’m under orders, and don’t come here again’s an order, not from Raymond, but from the chaps who don’t mess around. I can’t go see my brother, so I can’t pull out. I’m trapped. A glamorous job that has no glamour’s like a wartime meat and potato pie: all spuds and no meat.

  I don’t know how long it took me to get to sleep that Monday night. I suspect it was Tuesday by the time I drifted off, and then they were in my dream and my brother was right.

  They didn’t mess around.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Blithering Nincompoop

  NOTHING HAPPENED ON Tuesday. Wednesday we had geography with old Contour. We were doing about wheat. He drew a picture on the board – grain silos in Canada. ‘This is where the wheat comes from that goes to make our bread,’ he told us. ‘Canada grows millions of tons of the stuff every year.’ He paused, scanning the five rows of our faces. ‘So why is it important that we don’t waste bread?’ His eyes locked with mine. ‘Price?’

  ‘Sir, ’cause there’s kids starving in India,’ I blurted. It was what Mum alway
s said when I didn’t eat up.

  Contour snorted. ‘Nothing to do with India,’ he growled. ‘Think, laddie.’

  ‘Waste not want not, sir?’

  ‘No, you blithering nincompoop. Tell him, Deadman.’

  ‘Sir, it’s the sailors.’

  Contour beamed at Dicky. ‘What about the sailors, Deadman?’

  ‘They’re risking their lives, sir, bringing shiploads of wheat through swarms of Nazi U-boats so our mums can put bread on the table.’

  ‘Excellent answer, Deadman.’ He looked at me. ‘D’you understand now, Price?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Of course I understood, it’s exactly what I’d have said myself if he hadn’t taken me by surprise. Deadman only knew because his dad was in the Navy in the last war – he probably talks about U-boats all the time.

  ‘Right.’ Contour rubbed his hands together. ‘You will all copy my picture into your exercise books, label it, and write underneath in your own words what Deadman has just said.’ He looked at me. ‘Think you can manage that, laddie, or would you like somebody to give you a hand?’

  ‘I can manage, sir, thank you.’ You’re a government agent, I told myself, surely you can come up with a way to get back at Dicky.

  I don’t know what it’s like at your school, but mine had kids in it who just had to be best at something: didn’t matter what.

  Dicky was best at fighting – he was cock of the school. Somebody else had the hardest conker – a forty-eighter. There was the biggest marble collection, most cigarette cards, highest number of skips without stopping, breath-holding record (Sandra Williams, one minute twenty-two seconds), largest assembly of triangular postage stamps, and so on. But that year – 1941 – shrapnel was the thing.