Shrapnel

by Robert Swindells

  Shrapnel is jagged bits of steel. Most of it comes from ack-ack – shells fired by our anti-aircraft guns at enemy bombers. Most of them miss, but they explode in the sky and the fragments rain down all over the place. It’s why wardens, firemen and policemen wear tin hats when there’s a raid. A piece of shrapnel can kill you if it lands on your head.

  And kids collected shrapnel. You could go out the morning after a raid and pick it up off the street. It landed in parks and gardens, and even sometimes in the school yard. Ordinary bits were common – anybody could gather a big collection of those, but certain pieces were rare. The bronze nose cones of shells were real trophies. And bomb tails. One nose cone equalled fifty ordinary fragments, and a bomb tail equalled a hundred. I had a nose cone. Norman had two bomb tails, and if I’d been able to persuade him to give them to me – Woodhouse Grange boys didn’t collect shrapnel – mine would have been the second best shrapnel collection at Foundry Street School.

  Not the best. Walter Linfoot’s was easily the best and could never be equalled and I’ll tell you why. Walter’s big brother was a driver in the RAF. He drove lorries, ambulances and fire tenders. One day he had to drive a Coles Crane to where a German plane had crashed, load it up and take it away. It was a Heinkel 111. He wasn’t supposed to, but he snipped a piece out of its tail with bolt cutters and brought it home as a souvenir. It was the centrepiece of Walter’s shrapnel collection, pawed and slavered over by every boy in the school.

  And it gave me a truly wizard idea.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Tin Lizzie

  IT WAS JUST after seven when I got to the Robinson residence. Sarah let me in and went off to get Norman. I was gazing at a portrait in a massive gilt frame when he came whizzing down the banister.

  ‘Hullo, Gordon!’ he greeted, dismounting. ‘Wasn’t expecting you tonight.’ He nodded at the portrait. ‘Colonel Robinson, my grandfather. Made a fortune building cars.’

  I nodded. ‘I know, you told me. Aluminium bodywork wasn’t it – couldn’t rust?’

  ‘That’s right. Light as a feather, no rust.’ He frowned. ‘Beats me why they don’t build all cars that way.’

  ‘I know why,’ I said. ‘Dad told me. A car like that’d last a lifetime. Nobody’d ever need a new one. Not a good idea if your lolly comes from selling cars.’

  Norman grinned. ‘Your dad’s what they call a cynic, chum.’

  I didn’t say anything. Couldn’t – I don’t know what cynic means. Chaps who go to Woodhouse Grange pick up all sorts of la-di-da words. I looked at him. ‘Funnily enough, your ancestor’s car brought me here tonight.’

  He pulled a face. ‘Not possible, old lad – none on the roads nowadays, worse luck.’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t mean that. I’m talking about the one your dad’s got in his garage.’

  ‘Tin Lizzie?’ He laughed. ‘She doesn’t go, you twerp. Hasn’t even got an engine. Dad only keeps her because his father built her.’

  ‘Does he look at her much, d’you think?’

  Norman shook his head. ‘Never, I shouldn’t think. She’s sat in that murky corner for as long as I can remember. Why d’you ask?’

  I winked. ‘Tell you upstairs – I want to see what sort of job you made of our Stuka.’

  It hung from the ceiling in a near-vertical dive, and he’d done a marvellous job as always. His olive drab met my duck-egg blue in a dead-straight line all the way round, and every transfer was exactly where it belonged. Looking at it, you could almost hear the scream of the sirens on its wheel fairings.

  I explained about the colonel’s car.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Professional Performance

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON I was late home on purpose. There was a reason. Tomorrow I’d follow orders and buy the Frog Skymaster at Carter’s. Raymond had given me the money last Monday. I’d hidden it inside a wellington boot in the bottom of my wardrobe. This morning I’d smuggled it out in my satchel. Now I had to pretend I’d run into my brother today by accident, and he’d given me the two half-crowns for my birthday, which wasn’t until next March. I hadn’t been ordered to do any of this, but when you’re an agent you’re expected to use your initiative when necessary.

  ‘Where’ve you been, Gordon?’ asked Mum. ‘I do wish you’d come straight home from school – especially since Dad told us about the boy who was shot. I worry all the time.’

  ‘Sorry, Mum,’ I apologized. ‘I bumped into Raymond outside school. He gave me five bob.’

  ‘Five shillings?’ squeaked Gran. ‘What’s he doing nowadays – running the Royal Mint?’

  ‘How is he, love?’ asked Mum. ‘Did that envelope reach him?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know, Mum, he didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Why did he give you money, Gordon – so much money, I mean?’

  ‘For my birthday, in case he doesn’t see me again.’

  Mum frowned. ‘Doesn’t see you? Why shouldn’t he see you – he’s not going overseas, is he?’

  I shrugged. ‘I dunno, Mum, he didn’t say, but he’s not in uniform.’

  ‘So what does he do – where’s his money coming from? Shillings don’t grow on trees.’

  I pulled a face. ‘I don’t know any of his business, Mum. He’s found a good job, I suppose. He looks well, I’m sure you needn’t worry.’

  ‘Easy for you to say,’ she grunted. ‘Mothers do worry, can’t help it.’

  ‘What will you do with your fortune, sweetheart?’ asked Gran. ‘Save it till March?’

  I grinned, shook my head. ‘No fear, Gran. There’s a wizard flying model in Carter’s window – a Frog Skymaster. They’re asking exactly five bob for it. I’m off there tomorrow morning, early, before someone else bags it.’

  ‘Someone else?’ cried Gran. ‘There’s nobody else in Hastley with five shillings to fritter on toy aeroplanes, young man.’

  The Frog Skymaster isn’t a toy – it’s a model – but I didn’t say anything. Just smiled. I reckoned I’d pulled off my bit of deception really well. Professional performance in fact. Raymond would be proud of me. Him, and the chaps behind him who don’t mess around.

  I just wished I knew what I was buying the model for.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Wibbly Wobbly

  THE BOX WAS nearly three feet long. I’d come on the bike. I had a heck of a job getting plane, bike and self home without suffering the most colossal prang. Talk about the wibbly wobbly way.

  There was no table in Gran’s attic – just a washstand and basin for the maids who’d slept there in the old days. I had to shove my camp bed right into a corner and lay out the plans on the floor. It was bare boards, so pinning down parts while the glue dried would be no problem.

  I started straight away. Well, I hadn’t a clue how soon the powers-that-be wanted it finished. You’ll be contacted, Raymond had said. Didn’t say when.

  You can’t build a flying model in a day. The frame alone consists of more than a hundred strips of balsa. They’re held together with glue, which has to dry before you can continue. Everything has to be done in the right order. First the fuselage with the rubber-band engine inside, anchored to the tail at one end and the propeller at the other. Then the undercarriage. Then the wings. The wings are designed to detach for ease of transportation: you can lay them parallel with the fuselage to make a less unwieldy package.

  And that’s just the frame. After that, the whole thing’s got to be covered with tissue-paper, painted with special dope that stretches it taut over the frame and adds toughness, so it won’t tear every time the plane hits something, which happens all the time. The dope’s transparent, and most modellers add coats of colour for further strength, and to make their models look authentic. I intended doing mine in grey-green camouflage.

  I’d only built one wall of the fuselage when Gran called me down for lunch. ‘Is it done, love?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. ‘Nowhere near, Gran.’

  ‘Well, you should frame y
ourself,’ she told me. ‘They’re building real ones at the rate of one a day down Avro’s.’

  ‘How d’you know?’ I asked.

  She winked. ‘A little bird told me.’

  ‘Little birds should keep their beaks shut,’ I rejoined. ‘Walls have ears.’

  ‘And boys have hands,’ put in Mum. ‘Which they ought to wash before eating.’

  Aren’t grown-ups the giddy limit?

  TWENTY-SIX

  Better Not To Ask

  EVERY SUNDAY MORNING Gran went to church. She went poshed up, with a fur stole and everything. The stole was the pelt of a real fox complete with head, tail and paws. It had glass eyes and a dry, leathery nose. When I was little I liked stroking it, but it made me sad now.

  As she looked at herself in the mirror I said, ‘Gran?’

  ‘What is it, love?’ She was touching up her face with a powder puff.

  ‘Do Germans go to church?’

  ‘I expect so, Gordon. They have lots of pretty churches, I’ve seen them on postcards.’

  ‘Oh. And will they be asking God to – you know – protect them from bombs, help them win the war?’

  She snapped shut her compact, dropped it in her bag, turned from the mirror. ‘Bound to, I should think. Why?’

  ‘And it’s the same God, isn’t it?’

  ‘Ye-es.’

  ‘Well, who will He listen to, Gran? Whose prayers will He answer?’

  Gran shook her head. ‘I don’t know, Gordon. Nobody does.’

  ‘But the Germans’ll think He’s on their side, and we think He’s on ours?’

  ‘Something like that.’ She looked at me. ‘Why not come along – you could ask Reverend Pike your questions, he’s more qualified than me.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Mum,’ put in Dad. She’s not his mum, she’s Mum’s, but he calls her ‘Mum’.

  I looked at him. ‘Why not, Dad?’

  He shrugged. ‘There are some questions it’s better not to ask, Gordon – especially in wartime. And anyway, I thought you were dead keen on finishing that aeroplane of yours.’

  I nodded. ‘I am. I was just wondering, that’s all.’ I turned to Gran. ‘I won’t come, Gran, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course it’s all right, love. I’ll see you at twelve o’clock.’

  As she turned and left the room, the fox gazed back at me with bright, sightless eyes.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Bad Manners

  I FINISHED PUTTING the fuselage together that day. I had the undercarriage in place too, so that the thing stood on the floor like the skeleton of some prehistoric lizard. I wound the rubber-band engine really tightly by turning the propeller. When I let go it spun so fast it pulled the plane across the floor. It only travelled a few feet, but I could tell it’d be absolutely wizard in the air.

  The wings would have to be built in the evenings, after homework and between air raids. Attics aren’t good places to be during air raids – incendiary bombs come crashing through roofs and set them on fire.

  Monday morning I got to school early. So did Walter Linfoot. We had business to see to before the bell.

  At morning break there was a crowd round Walter. He had his shrapnel collection out, always an attraction, but that wasn’t all. Today he’d decided to cash in on the kids’ fascination with his chunk of German bomber by offering to sell bits off it at sixpence a go. Sixpence was a lot of dosh in those days – a week’s pocket money for most youngsters – but it’s amazing how many of them could get the necessary together if it meant having a bit of Heinkel in their collections. Clearly, old Walter was set to rake in a fortune.

  There was a snag however, in the shape of Dicky Deadman, and it wasn’t many minutes before he appeared with Charlie, Bobby and Victor in attendance. They shoved their way to the front.

  ‘What’s going on, Linfoot?’ demanded the cock of the school.

  Walter gulped. ‘Oh – I’ve decided to sell bits of my enemy bomber, Deadman – sixpence each. Want one?’

  Deadman stared into the lad’s eyes. ‘Got a licence, have you, Linfoot? Hawker’s licence, to sell on this playground?’

  ‘L . . . licence?’ stammered Walter. ‘I didn’t know I needed a licence.’

  ‘Oooh yes, Linfoot, you need a licence. A hawker’s licence. Big trouble if you trade without one.’ He grinned evilly. ‘Why d’you think spivs make themselves scarce when they spot a rozzer, eh?’

  ‘Well . . . where’ll I get one, Deadman? Who issues them?’

  ‘Me,’ said Deadman. ‘On this playground I issue ’em, and I’m turning down your application and confiscating your stock. Hand it over.’

  ‘No!’ Walter clutched the ragged sheet of metal to his chest. ‘It’s mine. My brother got it for me. You’re not having it.’

  Deadman turned to his sidekicks. ‘Hear that, Bobby, Victor, Charlie? Cheeky runt says I’m not having it. Sheer bad manners, I call that. How about you?’

  ‘Bad manners, definitely,’ confirmed Victor.

  ‘Shocking,’ nodded Charlie.

  ‘Makes you wonder who brought him up,’ growled Bobby. ‘Calls for a spot of re-education if you ask me.’

  ‘No.’ Deadman shook his head. ‘No, he’s not a bad lad, old Linfoot. I’ve known worse.’ He looked at Walter. ‘I’m feeling generous today, Linfoot, so I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll forget about the licence, and instead of confiscating your stock I’ll give you half a crown for it. How’s that?’

  ‘Half a crown?’ Walter looked stricken. ‘I’d make half a crown selling five bits, and there must be fifty in this piece. More.’

  Deadman nodded. ‘That’s about right, Linfoot. Fifty at sixpence comes to – what?’ Mental arithmetic wasn’t Dicky’s speciality. Charlie came to his rescue. ‘Twenty-five bob I make it, Dicky.’

  Deadman nodded. ‘Spot on, Charlie, I was just testing.’ He thrust a hand into his pocket. ‘Here’s your half-crown, Linfoot. Take it before I change my mind.’

  Poor Walter took the coin and surrendered the precious metal. He even had to lend Deadman the tin-snips he’d brought to cut the pieces with. None of the collectors was sympathetic. They opened a channel to let him through, then clamoured round Deadman offering cash, promises, IOUs. Nothing mattered except their collections.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A Fish in the Sahara

  I WENT NOWHERE after school that week. Norman probably thought I’d been killed. Straight after tea it was up to my room and on with the Skymaster. Mum was glad, of course. She didn’t like me to be out in the blackout, especially since Dad told that story about the boy getting shot. Personally I thought it was nothing but a rumour – there were always unkind stories about the Home Guard. I blame George Formby with that song of his.

  Anyway, by bedtime Friday I had the wings built and the whole thing covered, doped and camouflaged. It looked absolutely super and I was dead proud of it. I held it aloft and trotted round the room making engine noises. For a few minutes I forgot I’d built the thing under orders, for a purpose that was a mystery to me.

  I had to detach the wings to get the thing down the attic stairs, which were steep and narrow. Mum, Dad and Gran were deeply impressed when I reassembled it on the kitchen table. ‘It’s splendid, Gordon,’ said Mum. ‘Isn’t it, Frank?’

  Dad smiled. ‘Yes it is, Ethel.’ He looked at me. ‘Where will you fly it, son?’

  ‘I . . . I’m not sure, Dad.’ The question had taken me by surprise. I’d have to wait to be contacted before flying the Skymaster anywhere, but I could hardly say that. I shrugged. ‘The park, I expect.’

  Gran shook her head. ‘Not the park, sweetheart. Too small. Knock some poor tot’s head off with it. Need more space. Myra Shay’s big enough, I’d take it there if I were you.’ Myra Shay’s an expanse of rough grassland halfway between Hastley and school. I biked past it every day.

  ‘Good idea, Mum.’ Dad nodded. ‘We could try it out tomorrow afternoon if the rain keeps off
.’

  We? I went cold. I hadn’t a clue about the model’s role in my brother’s hush-hush work, but I was pretty sure his plans didn’t include having Dad around. ‘That’ll be nice, Dad,’ I murmured faintly, ‘if the rain keeps off.’

  I’m not one for praying, but that night I prayed for rain like a fish in the Sahara.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sherlock Holmes Himself

  AND IT RAINED so hard it woke me up. Two in the morning, drumming on the skylight window of my attic bedroom. I’m not claiming it was my prayer that did it, I’m just saying what happened.

  Wet nights were popular that year. Why? Because rain falls out of clouds, and clouds hide everything from enemy bombers. When the moon shone, people spoke of it as a bomber’s moon. Its light fell on rivers, canals and railway lines, turning them to silver. Bomber crews would follow these gleaming trails to the towns and cities they ran through, and find moon-washed rooftops to aim their bombs at. In 1941, a good wet night was a blessing.

  I fell asleep listening to that drumming, and in the morning it was still coming down. I was dead relieved, but I pretended for Dad’s benefit to be disappointed. ‘Shame,’ I murmured, looking out of Gran’s parlour window.

  Dad nodded ruefully. ‘Wouldn’t be much fun on Myra Shay this morning, son. Maybe next weekend, eh?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I agreed.

  I was worried. How would my contact, whoever he was, know I’d finished the plane? How would he know when to contact me? I thought about it, and an idea came to me. Not much of one, but at any rate the best I could come up with.

  What I did was, I stood the Skymaster on the table by the window. It was Gran’s best table – polished walnut – so I spread a tea towel over it first. Then I dashed outside to have a squint at it. The plane was clearly visible to anyone walking by. All I could do now was wait.