Shrapnel

by Robert Swindells

  That was when one of the officers pulled a wristwatch out of his pocket. I’d have recognized it anywhere, and so would Dad.

  There’d been no mistake. My brother was dead.

  Spivs

  ‘WHAT ABOUT TAKING cover, Natty?’ croaked a boy with long, greasy hair.

  Natty looked at him. ‘Why, got the wind up, have you, Gloria?’

  ‘’Course not, Natty, only . . .’ He screwed up his eyes as a detonation shook the lockup. ‘They’re a bit close tonight, I don’t fancy—’

  ‘I don’t care what you fancy, Gloria. You heard Eric – there’s papers galore, everything we need, just lying there. With the Army after half of us and the rozzers one step behind, we need to disappear and this is our chance.’ He smirked. ‘Just fink, Gloria – you’ll be somebody else tomorrer – we all will. Come on.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Eggless Cake, Watery Smiles

  MUM WASN’T AT breakfast on Wednesday morning. Gran told Dad he ought not to go to Beresford’s. He said hundreds of families lost somebody every day – if they all stayed off work, who’d keep the country going?

  Then she suggested keeping me off school, but I wanted to go. Till yesterday I’d never seen grown-ups cry, and I didn’t think I could face any more of it. Also, I didn’t know what to say about Raymond. Now that he was dead, would it be all right to tell Mum and Dad what he’d been doing? I needed them to know he was a hero, but somebody else would take his place and the whole thing was still hush-hush, wasn’t it? Keeping my brother’s secret was probably the one thing I could do for him now.

  We were still doing about wheat with old Contour. Gran had sent a note so the teachers knew I’d lost my brother. In the middle of the lesson, while everybody was drawing a convoy carrying grain across the Atlantic, Mr Lines laid a hand on my shoulder and murmured, ‘He was doing his bit, lad, you can be sure about that.’ He couldn’t know about the secret army, of course, but he’d taught Raymond and must have thought he was a decent lad. Anyway, it was kind.

  At lunch time I walked on the playing field by myself. I needed to think. What about my work, with the Skymaster? Did it go on, whatever it was, or had Raymond’s death ended it? I suppose, I told myself, that if no more instructions come I’ll know it’s over. Aborted. I decided all I could do was leave the plane in the shed and wait.

  The funeral was on Friday. Dad wouldn’t let me go, but I was kept off school so the mourners could see me afterwards at Gran’s. She’d opened a tin of ham she’d been hoarding, for sandwiches. There was tea, and an eggless cake. The parlour was full of relatives, friends and people unknown to me, some in uniform. I was treated to watery smiles and pats on the head.

  As soon as I could, I slipped away to the shed. Raymond wasn’t there either, of course, but his present was. I sat on the floor with the plane in my arms, and cried.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  No Guy Fawkes Night

  I STARTED FEELING sorry for Dicky Deadman. Yes, I know how that sounds, and I can’t explain. Maybe when you’re hurting, you feel other people’s hurt. Anyway, I noticed how he was always by himself, and that he avoided people. Some were after him for their money back, of course. He’d even sold bits of Robinson Roadster to his three chums, and they seemed to have stopped going round with him. Alone, he couldn’t sustain his role as cock of the school and he knew it. I suppose what I’m saying is, my plan had worked too well.

  November arrived. Usually we’d have great heaps of wood collected by now, ready for Guy Fawkes Night. This year there would be no Guy Fawkes Night. There were several reasons for this. One, it’s no use having blackout regulations, then lighting up the whole country for Jerry on November 5th. Two, all the fireworks factories had switched to munitions – you couldn’t have got a firework for a barrowful of gold. And three, sugar rationing meant nobody’s mum would be making bonfire toffee or gingerbread pigs this year. So if you think the war made our lives exciting, you’re dead wrong. And if you think it made us all pull together and help one another out, you’re wrong again. Every time the sirens sent people hurrying to the shelters, certain other people would creep out under cover of darkness and flit from house to empty house, nicking valuables. They’d even strip the dead, like they did at the railway arch. There were good neighbours, of course, but there were these rat-like citizens as well. In fact, it got so bad that people were frightened to leave their properties, and the Home Guard received orders to shoot looters on sight.

  No instructions came for me. One day the Skymaster wasn’t quite as I’d left it, but the difference was small and it might have been Gran who moved it, or a parent. I didn’t dare ask – how would I explain why it mattered? And anyway, the three of them were still raw from grieving, it was wise not to bother them.

  Then we got word our house was ready. Gran said she’d miss us, but I reckon she was relieved really.

  ‘D’you think Mr and Mrs Myers’ll mind if I keep the bike?’ I asked her. I’d be much closer to school, of course.

  She said ‘It’s yours, sweetheart, they sold it to us. Look after it, that’s all.’

  So we went home, and it was there my shadowy controllers got back in touch. They didn’t call me sweetheart.

  THIRTY-NINE

  If Wishes Were Horses

  I FOUND IT in my satchel. It was a Friday evening. I was in my room, getting out my weekend homework. Sandwiched between two exercise books was a sheet of paper. How it got there I don’t know – someone must have slipped it in while the satchel was hanging on my hook in the cloakroom. I unfolded it and read this:

  Fly Saturday, M.S. Same time, same pilot error. Proceed as before, own shed. Burn this.

  M.S. was Myra Shay. Same pilot error meant cross Manley’s fence. Own shed meant not Gran’s. They must think I’m daft – what sort of ass would travel right across town to leave the plane in Gran’s shed, just because it said proceed as before? I suppose they’ve got to make absolutely sure.

  There’s no fireplace in my room, and no matches in Raymond’s. I nipped downstairs for a glass of water and pinched a couple of Vestas from the box in the kitchen.

  I don’t like going in Raymond’s room. It looks exactly the same, but he’ll never be in it again and that makes it feel different. I laid the sheet of paper in the grate and put a match to it. It burned quickly. I crushed the ashes and left, closing the door behind me.

  I’d lost the mood for homework. I lay on the bed and gazed up at my planes. Dad never brought them to Gran’s for me after all: said they’d come to no harm where they were, and they hadn’t. I didn’t half wish I could do a swap – my planes in bits, my brother alive and well.

  Gran says if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Means it does no good, wishing. Can’t help it though sometimes, can you?

  FORTY

  Two or Sommink

  THERE WAS NOBODY at all on Myra Shay. People have to walk their dogs, even on raw November mornings, but they’d been and gone by the time I got there.

  There was no burned patch either. Locals have a huge bonfire on Myra Shay every November. It leaves a big black circle you can see till the spring grass rubs it out. Not this year.

  I flew the Skymaster a few times, working my way towards Manley’s fence without making it obvious. I no longer wondered whether all this was a practical joke. Who’d keep a joke of my brother’s going after his death?

  There was no wind today, no excuse for pilot error, but I couldn’t help that. I had my orders. If anybody was taking notice they’d know I aimed at the fence on purpose – I just had to hope nobody was.

  The plane landed on the cement path, hitting with quite a crack. I stood with my nose to the mesh, wondering what would happen if the Skymaster was damaged – too damaged to fly.

  I watched the lean-to door, but that’s not where the chap appeared from this time. He came round the end of the main building, stumping along the path with a pick handle in his fist. A watchman, I told myself, on sentry duty.

 
He saw the plane, and me, as he was about to go in the lean-to. He changed course and strode towards me, looking furious. I took a step back, though the mesh would’ve shielded me from the pick handle.

  ‘You again!’ he roared. ‘You told me you’d play somewhere else, you bleat’n little liar. D’you think I’ve nothing better to do than fetch your bleat’n toys back, eh? Picking up after you as if you was two or sommink? What if I was to stamp on your bleat’n plane? Feel badly done to then, I suppose. Wait here.’ Halfway to the plane, he turned to glare back at me. ‘Last time, this. Last bleat’n time, sonny. Do it again and I’ll kick it till you can’t tell what it is.’

  He went and picked up the plane. I half expected him to take it to the lean-to, but he didn’t. He stood for a few moments with his back to me, presumably winding the engine, then turned, lifted and launched. The Skymaster came whirring over the fence, apparently undamaged, but when it landed on the lumpy turf the undercarriage collapsed and it did a forward flip onto its back. I ran and picked it up, and when I glanced round the watchman had disappeared.

  The undercarriage, which should be springy but firm, flopped about uselessly. Impact with the cement path had torn its wire frame away from the balsa struts inside the fuselage. It would be disastrous to fly the aircraft again before the damage was fixed. It wasn’t a big job, but I’d have to strip away some of the doped paper covering the plane’s belly. Do not examine plane. That was an order, but how was I supposed to repair the thing without examining it?

  Back home, I did the only thing I could think of. I left the Skymaster in the shed, unrepaired. I’d leave it till I was ordered to fly again, then fix it before going back to Myra Shay. And if this was the wrong thing to do and they decided to shoot me, what could I do about it?

  FORTY-ONE

  Cars in Heaven

  SUNDAY MORNING THE plane had been moved, definitely. I’d left it with its propeller facing the door, and now it faced the back wall. And anyway there was a note. Well, hardly a note. One word, scrawled in pencil on the damaged belly:

  FIX

  Thank you would be nice, I thought. It’s one of Gran’s sayings. Then I realized whoever wrote it probably meant it to look as though I’d written it myself, in case somebody picked up the plane before I did. We have to think of everything, us agents.

  Refixing the undercarriage was a piece of cake, especially now I needn’t worry about seeing inside. What made it hard was, Mum and Dad seemed to think that doing everyday things so soon after Raymond’s death meant we were forgetting him already.

  Dad said, ‘Must you do that now, Gordon, and your brother not buried a week?’

  What was I supposed to do? Lie on my bed brooding? Sit in the chair with my head bowed? Whatever I did wasn’t going to bring him back, was it?

  I said, ‘Raymond gave me the plane, Dad. He wanted me to fly it. He still wants me to. I’m keeping it flying for him, like the ground crews do for our fighter pilots.’

  Dad was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘Quite right, son. Keep ’em flying, eh?’ He looked across at Mum. ‘That’s the spirit, isn’t it, old girl?’

  Mum smiled faintly over her darning. ‘Yes, dear, that’s the spirit.’ She was always close to tears these days.

  I was leaving the bike sheds Monday morning when Linton Barker intercepted me. ‘Hey, Pricey,’ he husked in his twenty cigs a day voice, ‘I saw your brother’s ghost last night, driving a Morris.’ He gave a sticky chuckle. ‘Didn’t know they dished out cars in Heaven.’

  I couldn’t speak, but stared at him aghast. He and I have never been enemies – why this appalling joke? I needed to know, but by the time I regained the power of speech he’d thumped my arm and ambled off, bubbling to himself.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sell his Mother

  ‘HOW MANY SQUARE feet in a square yard,’ snapped Whitfield. ‘Deadman?’

  ‘Uh . . . three, sir?’ hazarded Dicky, who’d been dreaming.

  ‘Rubbish, that’s feet in a yard. Think, laddie.’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  The teacher shook his head. ‘No, you’re not, Deadman. You never do, and I’ll tell you why, shall I?’

  ‘Yes please, sir,’ said the hapless Dicky. The class tittered.

  ‘You never think, Deadman, because you’ll never need to think. You won’t bother getting a proper job when you leave us next year. You’ll become a spiv instead. Know what a spiv is, do you?’

  Dicky nodded. ‘A chap wot buys and sells stuff, sir, on the street, out of a suitcase.’

  ‘He’s a parasite,’ grated Whitfield. ‘A black marketeer, stealing goods that belong to the whole nation, selling them at exorbitant prices to the few who can afford them. He’s undermining the rationing system, helping the enemy while helping himself to a handsome income without working.’ The teacher’s voice grew louder as he warmed to his subject. ‘The spiv is a traitor, Deadman – the lowest of the low. He’d sell his mother if he could get half a crown for her. He’s selling England, laddie – selling everything we’re fighting for, just so that he can walk our streets in his sharp suit and ghastly tie, dodging the law, dodging the call-up.’

  Whitfield’s face was purple now, his hands scrunched into fists. Spit shot through his clenched teeth as he bellowed at poor Dicky. ‘And I will not have,’ he screeched, ‘I will not tolerate, a fellow of that sort in my classroom. OUT, Deadman – GET OUT.’

  Dicky scrambled to his feet, gazing at that awful face like a bird mesmerized by a snake. He backed towards the door, stammering, ‘But, sir, I’m not. . . I won’t be a spiv . . .’

  ‘OUT!’ Whitfield groped behind his cupboard, drew out the cane and swished it like a sabre.

  Dicky fled.

  FORTY-THREE

  Job on ITMA

  ‘FAG?’ LINTON BARKER held out a Woodbine packet. It was morning break; I’d tracked him down on the playing field.

  I shook my head. ‘No thanks, you’ll get murdered if old Hinkley sees you.’ I scowled at him. ‘Why’d you say that about my brother, Barker?’

  He shrugged. ‘Sorry, Price. Chap looked like him, that’s all. Didn’t mean to upset you.’

  ‘Well, you did. It’s no picnic you know, losing somebody.’

  He nodded, drawing deeply on his foul Woodbine. ‘I know, my Uncle Peter was on the Royal Oak.’

  ‘Really?’ The Royal Oak was a battleship, sunk in Scapa Flow by a U-boat. Hundreds drowned. ‘I never knew that, Barker.’

  ‘No.’ He blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I don’t talk about it. What did your brother do anyway, Price?’

  I pulled a face. ‘I don’t know, exactly. He didn’t talk much either. I think it was important.’

  Barker nodded. ‘I think we’re all doing important stuff, Price. You know: carrying on, keeping our end up. Except the spivs, of course. Whitfield was right about them. My dad says they should round ’em all up and shoot them.’

  I nodded, then grinned. ‘He didn’t half lay into old Deadman though, didn’t he? Anybody’d think Dicky stood by the gates after school every day, flogging sardines and nylons.’

  ‘Well, he swindled plenty of chaps over those bits of tin he said were from an enemy bomber. Whitfield obviously knows about that.’ Linton let out a phlegmy chuckle. ‘He ran home, y’know – his mum brought him back just before break. Some cock of the school, eh?’

  ‘Yes,’ I murmured, feeling guilty. Dicky’s plight was all my fault – I hadn’t meant to have him branded a spiv. ‘Things aren’t exactly ticketyboo for Deadman just now.’ I smiled. ‘Talking of spivs, did you hear the one about the woman who buys a tin of sardines from a spiv?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, he charges her a shilling for them, and when she opens the tin at home the fish are rotten. So next day she keeps her eyes open and spots the chap on a corner, looking shifty. She marches up to him and says, “You sold me a tin of sardines yesterday, and they were rotten.” And he says, “Those sardines weren’t for eating, darling – the
y were for buying and selling.”’

  Barker looked at me. ‘Then what happened?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing. That’s it.’

  ‘And that’s a joke, is it?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s going round. Sort of a warning, I suppose, against buying stuff off spivs.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t audition for a job on ITMA, will you, Price?’

  FORTY-FOUR

  Wish I Hadn’t

  AFTER TEA I decided I’d pop across to Norman’s. He didn’t know about Raymond and I thought it was time he did. You don’t keep stuff like that from your best chum. I hadn’t even told him we were back home.

  ‘Oh, Gordon,’ he said when I broke the news about my brother. ‘How utterly awful, your poor parents. How are you managing?’

  I pulled a face. ‘We’re all right, Norman, thanks. Got to be, haven’t you?’

  He nodded. ‘May I tell Dad and Mum? They know about the railway arch – Dad went there next morning – but they’ve no idea . . .’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll wait here if that’s all right. It’s just – I don’t like to see grown-ups upset.’

  I waited in the playroom under the roof, but I didn’t get away with it. A couple of minutes passed, then my chum returned.

  ‘Mum says I’m to bring you down, they want to offer their – you know? I’m sorry.’

  It was pretty horrible. They were kind to me, but they were too kind, if you understand what I mean. People like the Robinsons, they put everything into words. Thoughts and feelings. I mean everybody has them, but most people keep them inside. They’re private, and anyway you can’t find the right words, they don’t come out right. Norman’s mum managed it, I don’t know how. She reminded me of Greer Garson in Mrs Miniver. All the time she was talking to me I felt as if we were in a film.