I didn’t have to wait long. Just after ten there was a knock at the side door. Mum opened it, and called to me. ‘Young man from Carter’s, Gordon, asking for you.’
I hurried to the door, recognized the man who’d sold me the kit. Poor chap looked half-drowned. ‘Come inside,’ I invited, but he shook his head.
‘No time. Manager sent me with this.’ He thrust a folded paper at me. ‘It’s a receipt for five shillings, ought to have given it to you before you left the shop.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Keep it to yourself, read it, burn it. Good morning.’
He spun on his heel and hurried off, shoulders hunched against the downpour. I stood gawping after him till the penny dropped.
I’d been contacted.
‘What did the young man want, Gordon?’ asked Mum.
I stuffed the paper in my pocket. ‘It was nothing, Mum, just a receipt for my five bob. Dunno why they had to send him out on a day like this. I’m off to my room if that’s all right.’
Under the skylight I smoothed the paper and read the words scrawled in pencil:
Fly at Myra Shay Saturday next, ten a.m. Lose plane over Manley’s fence, it will be returned in minutes. Do not continue flying, do not examine plane. Leave in shed with bike. Await instructions. Burn this now.
I read the note a second time, then struck a match from the box I kept for the gaslight. The paper was damp, it didn’t catch straight away. I held the flame to a corner. My hand shook. I was listening for footfalls but nobody came. Finally the paper caught fire and I dropped it in a Bakelite ashtray, where it burned to a blackened crisp. This I crushed to powder before throwing it out of the window. I rubbed my hands together, satisfied Sherlock Holmes himself couldn’t have made sense of it now.
We secret agents can’t be too careful.
THIRTY
Bodywork
ANOTHER MONDAY, ANOTHER double maths session with old Whitfield. I didn’t care. There were two good reasons why I didn’t care. One, I’d been contacted. Activated, if you like. I might look like the average English schoolboy, bored stiff and longing to get into the war, but I wasn’t. I was in the war: a secret agent, part of a team of undercover operatives doing hush-hush work vital to the survival of our country. I hadn’t a clue what Whitfield’s bally x equalled, and I wouldn’t be losing any sleep over it.
And two, Dicky Deadman had fallen for a brilliant bit of spivvery dreamed up by myself, and was about to get his comeuppance.
I closed the trap at morning break. There was a knot of kids round Dicky, who was selling off the last few bits of enemy bomber at the knock-down price of fourpence. Me and Walter Linfoot watched at a distance till they’d all gone, then sidled over. I nodded at the jagged two-inch square he’d kept for his own collection.
‘Nice bit of bodywork, that,’ I remarked.
He sneered. ‘You don’t say bodywork, Price – not when it’s an aeroplane. It’s a nice bit of airframe, or maybe fuselage. Cars have bodywork, you twerp.’
I nodded. ‘I know, Dicky, and what you’ve got there is a nice bit of car bodywork.’
‘Don’t talk rot, Price. This is off a Heinkel 111. Ask that duffer next to you – his brother liberated it.’
Walter shook his head. ‘Not that, Deadman. The Heinkel’s at home. That’s a bit off a 1922 Robinson Roadster, and so are all the bits you’ve flogged at a tanner a time. You’re nothing but a cheap fraudster. I wouldn’t be you when your customers find out – you’ll be a deadman then all right.’
Old Dicky. I wish you could’ve seen his face.
THIRTY-ONE
Not Expecting Jerry
‘HE’S IN THE conservatory, Gordon, come on through.’ I followed Sarah, passing about a million quids worth of antiques and pictures along the way. It’d be a major tragedy if a bomb ever hit this place.
‘Gordon!’ Norman was sitting in a wicker chair, a stamp album open across his knees. He closed it, set it on a small table and got up. ‘I wasn’t expecting you.’
I glanced at the powerful lamp on the table, then at the expanse of unshaded glass around and above us. ‘You’re not expecting Jerry either by the look of it – do your parents not know about the blackout?’
‘Oh, pooh!’ He grinned. ‘Wardens can’t see this side of the house because of the high wall, and it only takes a sec to plunge the place into darkness if the siren goes.’ He looked at me. ‘Did it work, your ruse with the piece we cut from Tin Lizzie?’
I nodded. ‘Like a dream. Deadman gave Walter half a crown for it, and made twenty-five bob selling it off in bits. We waited till he sold the last bit, then told him.’ I laughed. ‘With fifty chaps after his blood, I’m not expecting any more trouble from him in the near future.’ I pulled a face. ‘I only hope you don’t get into hot water with your dad for mutilating the Roadster.’
Norman shook his head. ‘I shan’t. I told you, he never goes near it and if he did, I’d tell him I donated the piece to the Saucepans to Spitfires campaign. He could hardly shout about that, could he?’
He was showing me his latest stamp – a cerise Guadeloupe triangular with a beautiful frigate bird on it – when Sarah reappeared. This time there were beakers of rich sweet cocoa and a plate of peppermint-cracknel chocs.
‘Y’know, Sarah,’ grinned Norman, ‘I suspect there isn’t a war on at all down your end of the house.’
The girl nodded. ‘You’re right, Norman – in my quarters it’ll always be nineteen thirty-two, and I’ll always be seventeen.’
THIRTY-TWO
Just Boys
I COULD HARDLY wait for Saturday, when my real work would begin. Something amazing happened on Thursday, but not to me.
Gran knew the people it happened to, they’d been neighbours of hers years ago. Varney was their name. They lived miles away now, out in the country. Mrs Varney had called to see Gran that day and told her the story.
Wednesday night there’d been a raid on the city. An enemy bomber was hit. It turned for home, but one of its engines was on fire and the pilot was forced to make a crash-landing on farmland. Some Home Guard chaps ran to the smoking kite and captured the three-man crew, who were practically unhurt. The nearest house belonged to the Varneys, and the Home Guard knocked them up at two in the morning and asked to use the phone. They had the German airmen at rifle-point. Mrs Varney invited everybody inside, and the prisoners drank tea till the police arrived. They were just boys, Mrs Varney said. Just boys.
‘Could they speak English, Gran?’ I asked. ‘Did they say anything?’
‘I don’t know,’ she told me. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Well what about the plane – what sort was it? Did it burn up or is it still in the field?’
Gran shrugged. ‘I dunno, love, Violet didn’t mention it.’
‘Were they armed, Gran – Lugers or anything?’
‘I don’t know.’
It was dead frustrating. Why does all the interesting stuff happen during school time? If I’d been there, I’d have asked Violet Varney all sorts. Why couldn’t the thing have landed on Trickett Boulevard, and why aren’t grown-ups interested in anything except funny wireless programmes such as ITMA and when they’ll see bananas again?
It was in the local paper a few days later. The story, and a blurry snapshot, just clear enough to make out that the plane was a Dornier, nicknamed the flying pencil. It didn’t answer any of my other questions.
I wonder if there’s a chap in Germany just like me, building aero models, full of questions only he cares about?
THIRTY-THREE
Sorry
SATURDAY BEGAN DRY, but that was all right – Dad works Saturday mornings, so he couldn’t have come with me to Myra Shay if he’d wanted to. Whoever was giving me my instructions probably knew this.
It was hairy, biking with the Skymaster. I’d detached the wings, of course, and fastened them with rubber bands to the fuselage, but it still made an awkward cargo. The bike had no carrier over the rear wheel, so I had to balance the plane across
the handlebars. Every gust of wind threatened to topple it and me into the gutter.
I didn’t have Myra Shay to myself. There were two dog walkers, and a kite flyer with his mum or older sister. As I assembled the plane, I could see the kite flyer watching. I knew he wanted to come over and look at it, but luckily the girl wouldn’t let him. I wound the engine tightly and performed my maiden launch.
It was a wizard first solo. Propeller whirring, the Skymaster soared skyward and went off across the Shay like a golden eagle, while I ran after it laughing like a jackass. For the first time I understood why some chaps prefer flying models to solids. It was as if a part of me was up there, soaring with the plane.
It made a near-perfect landing, bouncing across the turf till it lost speed and a wing tip touched the grass, swinging it round. I picked it up and examined it anxiously. There was no damage.
I looked all around. The dog walkers had disappeared. The young woman was holding the kite-flyer’s hand, leading him away. He was resisting, but I could’ve told him it was no use. A chap about my age had arrived, also by bike, also with a flying model, but he no more wanted to acknowledge me than I did him. There was nobody else. Nobody watching to see how I’d get on, unless they were miles away with binoculars.
I gazed towards the chain-link fence round Manley’s. It was nine feet high, with barbed wire coiled along its top. Beyond it ran a cement pathway, and beyond that were some low, red-brick buildings. I wasn’t sure what sort of place Manley’s was – some sort of storage facility, I thought. Lorries came and went, stuff was loaded and unloaded, but it certainly wasn’t a factory. There was no sign of anybody inside the fence. I didn’t fancy sending the Skymaster over there. It will be returned in minutes, the note had said. By whom, for Pete’s sake?
Words from a poem came to me:
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do, and die.
Hoping it wouldn’t come to that I rewound the engine, walking towards the fence as I did so. I had to assume the loss of my plane should seem accidental, so I didn’t aim at the fence and launch. Instead I waited for a gust of wind, then hurled the machine parallel to the wire. It rose into the wind, banked sharply to port and was carried over, clearing the barbs with a foot to spare. I faked a cry of despair in case someone was within earshot, hooked my fingers through the mesh and watched my pride and joy land heavily on the strip of turf between the pathway and the buildings.
Nobody came so I risked a shout. Well, it’s what anybody would do who’d lost his plane, isn’t it? ’Course it is.
‘Hello?’ Pause. ‘I say, is anybody there?’ I rattled the fence. ‘Hello?’
There was a wooden lean-to shed. After about five minutes, a fellow emerged from it, muttering to himself. He didn’t look at me, but went straight towards the plane.
‘Th . . . thanks,’ I called. ‘Sorry. It won’t happen again, I promise.’ He ignored me, perhaps he was deaf. He picked up the Skymaster, turned, and went back towards the shed.
‘I say, hello? It’s my plane, it was an accident, I’m sorry. D’you think you could . . .?’ He disappeared inside the shed, closing the door.
‘It’ll be all right,’ said a voice behind me. I spun round. It was the chap I’d seen arrive. He grinned. ‘He’s scaring you, that’s all. Done it to me a couple of times. Makes you think your kite’s gone for good, then comes out, swears a bit, chucks it over. You’ll see.’ He sauntered off, his plane tucked under his arm.
He was right. A minute later the fellow came out with the Skymaster. He glared at me from the path. ‘Bleat’n kids,’ he growled, ‘forever chucking their bleat’n toys over my bleat’n fence. Do it on purpose, I’m bleat’n sick of it.’ He lifted the plane high over his head. ‘Next time I’ll bleat’n stamp on it, see if I don’t.’ He launched it and it soared over my head.
‘Th . . . thanks. I’ll fly it over there – right over there, you won’t be troubled again,’ I burbled, but he’d already turned away. I retrieved the Skymaster and trudged towards my bike.
THIRTY-FOUR
Like a Bird
DO NOT CONTINUE flying, do not examine plane. So I didn’t. Had to take the wings off, of course, but I did it practically without looking. Strange instruction though, do not examine plane. Why not? It looked exactly the same as before, but still . . .
I fantasized all the way home. Here’s the fearless agent, risking life and liberty to carry vital messages past unsuspecting foes. He will not fail, the message must get through. He will not crack under torture: the future of his country is at stake.
Well, it might be true for all I know.
I stowed bike and plane in Gran’s shed and went in to lunch. Dad had just got back.
‘Does it fly, son?’ he asked as I washed my hands at the sink.
I grinned, nodded. ‘Like a bird, Dad – a golden eagle.’
He smiled. ‘Splendid. Be sure and tell your brother that, if you ever run across him.’
‘Of course he’ll run across him,’ snapped Mum. ‘It’s not as if Raymond’s gone abroad. He’s somewhere in the city, not somewhere in North Africa.’
‘More’s the pity,’ growled Dad.
Mum looked at him. ‘You don’t mean that, Frank.’
Dad nodded. ‘Certainly I do. At least in Africa he’d be serving his country – lord knows what he’s up to in the city. No job, money to burn. Upsets me.’
‘Well, I’d be far more upset if he was away – looking out of the window every verse end, dreading to see a telegram boy coming up the path. I hope he stays in the city till the war’s over, no matter what he’s doing.’
I wanted to tell them. Was dying to say: Raymond’s a secret agent, raising an army to resist the Nazis when they occupy this country. You ought to be proud of him.
But I couldn’t, could I?
That night there was a raid, and a tragedy. It was our tragedy as well as other people’s, but we didn’t find that out for some days.
THIRTY-FIVE
Lucky Girl
THE SIRENS WENT just after nine. I’d been in bed an hour, but I wasn’t asleep. I’d been lying there, thinking about the Skymaster in the shed. What had been the point of today’s business at Myra Shay? Was the plane different somehow? A message in invisible ink perhaps, scrawled on a wing by the chap in the lean-to? The siren’s wavering howl stopped my wondering.
Dad called from the foot of the attic stairs. ‘Shake a leg, son – time to take cover.’ I pulled on a jumper over my pyjamas, shoved my feet into slippers and scampered down.
Gran’s shelter is just like ours, except she shares with a mother and baby, not an old couple. The baby was asleep in a clothes basket. At the sound of the first explosion, the mother knelt on the duckboards and bent her body over the basket to shield her baby. I don’t suppose it’d have made much difference in the event of a direct hit, but it showed that not all heroes wear uniforms. She stayed like that all night, wouldn’t let anybody take over.
It was a very heavy raid, and it went on for hours. Sometimes the ground shook. There were factories in the city where tanks, lorries and aeroplanes were built. The bombers were probably after those, but bombing’s never very accurate and we knew lots of houses were being hit as well. I hoped ours wouldn’t be among them – repairs had just begun on it.
Our ack-ack was busy, making more racket than the bombs. Plenty of shrapnel in the morning, I told myself, if I’m still here.
It was nearly dawn when the all clear sounded. The young mother stood up and started knocking dust off her dressing gown. The baby woke and howled.
Gran smiled at it. ‘I don’t know why you’re crying,’ she cooed, ‘you missed it all, you lucky girl.’
We went in to breakfast. It had to be a cold meal – a main had fractured somewhere, there was no gas. We had water though, which was something.
It was mid-morning when the rumour reached Trickett Boulevard. In the city a railway arch, used as an unofficial shelter, had received a dire
ct hit. More than a hundred people had died, many of them children. None of the dead had yet been identified.
THIRTY-SIX
Knights on a Raft
I’D LOOKED IN the shed Sunday morning. The plane was exactly where I’d put it, nothing was different. I was starting to wonder if I was the victim of some complicated practical joke. Was my brother pulling my leg, making me believe I was doing something important when in fact the whole business of the Skymaster and Myra Shay was a wild-goose chase?
I did add some good bits to my shrapnel collection, though I didn’t mention it in the house. The grown-ups’ mood was sombre because of the railway arch – collecting shrapnel might strike them as callous in the circumstances. After lunch I cycled over to our own house and found it untouched by last night’s raid. The roof looked complete. I rode back with the news, which failed to lighten the mood. I felt pretty rotten myself, what with one thing and another.
Tuesday, my world collapsed. Our world, I mean. It was tea time. Dad had just got in. We were having knights on a raft – Gran’s name for sardines on toast. There was a knock at the door. I jumped up to answer it – I thought it might be the chap from Carter’s with fresh orders for me, but it wasn’t: it was two policemen with bad news for Dad and Mum. For all of us.
They told us Raymond was dead. He’d been one of the people taking shelter under the railway arch. Most of the victims had been stripped of their ration books, identity cards, rings and watches by thieves, before the authorities arrived. This often happened. It made the job of identifying the dead extremely difficult. However, a few bodies had not been robbed, and on one they’d found Raymond’s papers.
Mum fell howling to the floor. Gran started trying to lift her, calling to me to help. Together we got her on her feet and up to her room. When I came down, Dad was shouting at the policemen, saying it must be a terrible mistake – how could anybody be sure who was who in all that carnage?
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