But I know she meant every word.
We went back upstairs, Norman and I, and played with his planes. At half-past eight, just as I was thinking of going home, the sirens went. Naturally the Robinsons made me go with them to their shelter, even though I said my parents would be worried. Doctor Robinson offered to phone them, but we aren’t on the telephone. Luckily, it turned out to be a false alarm. No raid developed, and at eleven o’clock the all clear sounded. I was invited to stay the night – Sarah could be sent to tell my people where I was – but I said I had to go.
Something happened as I was biking home which made me wish I hadn’t.
There’s a short cut you can only take at night. It means crossing a factory yard, and in the daytime its loading bay is always busy – lorries backed up, chaps carrying stuff into them, little trolleys scooting about. It isn’t a public right of way, you get shouted at if anybody sees you. There’s no night shift though, and because I knew they’d be fretting at home I decided to save a minute.
There was a lorry backed up to the bay. No lights were on, not even the lorry’s sidelights. The place was in total darkness. At first I thought the lorry must have been parked there for loading first thing in the morning, but then I saw movement and jammed on the brakes. I was just inside the gateway, practically invisible to a casual glance. I remembered Dad’s story of the chap shot by the Home Guard. I stood straddling the bike, absolutely still, hardly daring to breathe.
The loading-bay shutter was up. Men were humping stuff out, passing it over the tailgate to somebody in the back of the lorry. There was no talk. Somebody had a torch, which he switched on briefly now and then. It was a feeble light, but it flitted once across a face I’d know anywhere – a face I’d thought never to see again.
It was the face of my dead brother.
FORTY-FIVE
Zombies
I STOOD, PARALYSED with shock. Queer thoughts whirled in my skull. Ghosts, loading a lorry? Surely not. Zombies, then. In nineteen forty-one, in the middle of England? Don’t be an ass. Wish Norman was here. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride, so get a grip, Price, you’re a secret agent. Think, laddie.
Two possibilities. One, it isn’t Raymond, just someone who looks like him. After all it was a fleeting glimpse, in feeble light. Or two, it is Raymond and he’s alive. The police made a mistake, like Dad said. And the watch? Who knows?
One thing was obvious – whatever was going on here didn’t want an audience. The fellows over there on the platform might even be my brother’s colleagues – the chaps he warned me about, who don’t mess around. So instead of standing here like a twerp, waiting to be shot, I’d better make myself scarce.
Moving as stealthily as I possibly could, I started to back away. Each cautious step took me further into shadow, but I never took my eyes off the loading bay. Chaps were still carrying stuff out. The torch flickered now and again, but it didn’t find my brother’s face. After what seemed like ages, I was out of the yard and free to pedal away.
I was relieved, of course, but my mind was a mess. Had I seen my brother? Impossible, surely. A glimpse, a momentary impression. Not nearly enough to justify mentioning it to Mum and Dad, upsetting them all over again.
I saw your brother’s ghost last night, driving a Morris. Linton Barker’s words. Coincidence, nothing more.
Funny though.
A quarter to midnight, I arrived home. They’d both waited up. My explanation wasn’t enough. In fact it wasn’t listened to. Dad bawled me out while Mum blubbed. I could have stopped the pair of them dead in their tracks, but I’m not that cruel.
And that’s why it couldn’t really have been Raymond – he wasn’t that cruel either.
FORTY-SIX
Blue Funk
NEXT DAY I couldn’t concentrate on anything. I was yelled at in history and caned, one on each hand, in Divinity. There seemed to be a little cinematograph inside my head. It kept projecting the same fragment of film – a face, seen fleetingly in the beam from a flashlight. And each time, the face came to look more and more like Raymond’s.
It was a talkie too. Is your brother alive? it asked, over and over. Is your brother alive? It was driving me batty.
I must have been batty, because I didn’t go home at home time. I biked into town, chained the Raleigh to the lamp post and stood in the doorway of the vacant shop, just like before. Two things were different – I’d scrounged no fags from Linton Barker, and I was waiting for a dead man.
And he didn’t come. Of course he didn’t. I waited till the jeweller’s clock said five, then crossed to Farmer Giles. Inside I went straight to the counter where the same woman stood.
‘Hello,’ I said. She looked at me as if she’d never seen me before. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’
‘Help you, dearie?’ she said. ‘Why, is something the matter?’
‘I . . . I’m looking for my brother, he comes in here a lot. You know – Raymond?’
The woman looked baffled, shook her head. ‘I don’t know any gentleman of that name,’ she told me. ‘Sorry.’
‘Yes you do, I’ve sat with him, over there.’
She shrugged. ‘I serve a lot of people, dearie. Hundreds, I shouldn’t wonder. Don’t learn most of their faces, and as for names . . .’
‘Yes, but Raymond’s one of you.’ I whispered this, glancing around. There were five men at two tables, busy chatting. ‘You know?’
‘One of me? I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, young man.’
‘Oh, look.’ I leaned in. ‘I know it’s all hush-hush, but that’s all right – I’m one of you as well.’
She was becoming angry. ‘You’re one of them crackpots if you ask me – one of them loonies. It’s blast, I expect. I want you to leave now, or I’ll call on one of these gentlemen here to show you the door.’
I walked out. The cold air must have brought me to my senses, because as I unchained the bike I thought: What have I done? Why did I come here, mentioning Raymond’s name? What about the chaps who don’t mess around? She’ll tell ’em. Bound to. Young Price is cracking up.
I rode home in a blue funk. They’d shoot me for blabbing. I’m probably pedalling into the telescopic sight of someone’s high-powered rifle at this moment.
BANG!
Home Guard, they’ll say, mistook the poor kid for a saboteur.
Easy as that.
FORTY-SEVEN
Ruminating
I HARDLY SLEPT, got up Wednesday morning with red eyes and raw nerves. It was porridge again. I growled ‘not porridge again,’ and pushed my bowl away. ‘There’s a war on, son,’ said Dad in a dangerously mild tone, and Mum said, ‘What on earth’s the matter with you, Gordon – anybody’d think you’d spent the night in the shelter.’
I couldn’t tell them, could I? Couldn’t say, I’m scared. I’ve got myself into something dangerous and now I could die, just because I wanted a bit of glamour, bit of excitement. I wanted to – longed to – but I was trapped, like the lad who volunteers as a fighter pilot so he’ll have wings on his tunic and girls all over him, then finds the likely prospect of being fried to a crisp in a burning plane completely swamps any glamour there might be in it.
Truth is, I was getting cheesed off not being able to talk to anybody about the important things in my life. I mean, what’s the use of parents, chums and teachers if you can’t confide in them?
The life of the secret agent is a lonely one. And if you think that’s got a romantic ring to it, try it.
Last period Wednesday morning is geography. We’ve finished wheat, the class is doing corned beef. The class is, I’m not. I’m ruminating. Ruminating’s when you gaze out of the window and see nothing, because you’re deep in thought.
I was ruminating about being unflappable. I wish I was unflappable – agents ought to be, but I’m not. Dad found a piece in a magazine about an unflappable butler the other day, and read it out to Mum and me.
It’s a true story; it happened
at a great house where they have a butler who stays calm whatever happens. One day a crippled Hurricane made a wheels-up landing in the grounds of the house, ploughed across their massive lawn at a rate of knots, crashed into the conservatory in a blizzard of splintered glass and came to a stop. The pilot clambered out unhurt, and the butler went to his master and said, ‘There’s a young man to see you, sir – he’s in the conservatory.’
I loved it. Wished I was that butler.
‘Price?’ I jerked back to reality. Lines was looking at me. ‘Are you all right, lad?’
‘Y – yes, I was just thinking, sir.’
‘You look a bit rocky – perhaps a breath of fresh air, eh? Splash of cold water?’ He’s all right, old Contour. Almost human.
I nodded. ‘Yes, thank you, sir, I’ll just . . .’ I got out of my seat. I was tired, not ill at all, but a break is a break.
Lines turned to Linton. ‘Go with him, Barker.’
We crossed the yard to the toilets. I dashed a handful of water onto my face, then nodded towards a cubicle. ‘I’ll sit down in there for a bit, if you don’t mind hanging on?’
He grinned. ‘’Course I don’t. Fag?’ He held out the Woodbine packet.
‘No thanks, but have one yourself. I won’t be long.’
I pushed the door to, sat on the seat. I felt perfectly well, but I was in no rush to get back to Argentina and corned beef. I could hear Linton shuffling about outside, hawking and coughing. I thought some more about the unflappable butler, but doesn’t time crawl when you want it to pass?
For something to do I started reading the graffiti that covered the door so densely you could hardly see the cream paint. It was vulgar stuff mostly, but some bits were quite funny.
I like grils was crossed out and corrected – I like girls. Under this in a different hand was, What about us grils?
I chuckled, then noticed a line in eye-catching green that read:
Sat same t. same p. same drill
I shook my head, but there was no mistaking the style. I’d been contacted again.
‘All right now?’ asked Linton when I emerged. I nodded. He dropped his tab-end, ground it under a heel. ‘Good-o, it’s nearly lunch time. Come on.’
I could have done with that Woodbine now, but it was too late.
FORTY-EIGHT
Linton Barker’s Lungs
SATURDAY DAWNED AND I was still unshot. This didn’t make me unflappable, but I had simmered down a bit which was just as well, since it was time to carry out my third assignment.
In stories, agents never receive their instructions on lavatory doors. It felt disrespectful, and I wondered whether the chaps who don’t mess around had chosen this way of showing their displeasure at my blabbing all over Farmer Giles. If so, I suppose I got off lightly.
It was a foggy morning, and I’m not talking about mist. Everywhere was clotted with thick yellow stuff you could nearly gather by the armful and pile into a barrow. It was like cotton wool some giant had cleaned his filthy ears out with. I had to bike at about four miles a fortnight all the way to Myra Shay. It’s a good job I’m familiar with the route, or I’d never have found the place at all.
When I did, the grass was cold and sodden. When I stretched out my arm my hand was invisible. If anybody else was barmy enough to be here, I didn’t see ’em. In fact, Hitler could’ve landed three airborne divisions on Myra Shay that morning and nobody would’ve been any the wiser.
I groped my way to Manley’s fence and peered through dripping mesh. I couldn’t see the building, or even the cement path. If I sent the Skymaster over in this, the security man wouldn’t see me do it, wouldn’t know where to look.
What was I supposed to do? The chap couldn’t know, when he scribbled on that lavatory door, that there’d be a peasouper on Saturday. Mind you, he couldn’t know I’d be the one to read it, could he, out of a schoolful of kids? Maybe he’s a wizard, I thought. Knows everything.
Which didn’t help at all.
‘That you, Biggles?’ growled a nearby, sullen voice. I nearly jumped out of my skin. The watchman was a blob six feet away, on the other side of the fence. ‘Y . . . yes,’ I stammered, ‘only it isn’t Biggles, it’s . . .’
‘Whoa!’ he bellowed like somebody stopping a runaway horse. ‘Don’t tell me your bleat’n name, you fathead. Fly the plane.’
I flew it. It vanished into the muck. The watchman vanished as well. I stuck my hands in my pockets and stood, screwing up my eyes into the fug. Like standing in Linton Barker’s lungs, I thought.
It was a neat simile, but I hadn’t long to enjoy it. As the blob reappeared, holding the plane aloft, somebody shouted and more blobs materialized, bobbing towards the watchman. He started to run, crying out as the phantom shapes merged with him. I heard a tearing, splintering noise, and knew that this time the Skymaster would fail to return.
I fled, thankful now for the fog.
FORTY-NINE
It Wasn’t Exactly a Lie
I PLUNGED THROUGH the noxious vapour, gibbering like an idiot. It took for ever to find the bike. The wet saddle soaked my pants, felt as though I needed my nappy changed. The only good thing was, whoever had pinched my plane wouldn’t find me, let alone take pot shots.
I wobbled homeward. Or what I hoped was homeward. Who were those fellows? murmured a little voice in my head. Germans? Traitors? Should I have stayed, helped the watchman? Sexton Blake would have. Yes, but how, with the fence between?
Mum was washing spuds. She didn’t peel ’em nowadays – it was a waste of good grub. There was a cartoon in the paper – a spud with arms and legs, wearing a jacket. Good taste demands I keep my jacket on, said the speech bubble. Old Hinkley reckons peeling spuds is as bad as signalling to enemy planes. Mein Fuehrer, our agents in England are persuading housewives to peel potatoes: victory cannot be far away.
I’d made up a story about the Skymaster. It wasn’t exactly a lie. ‘I lost the plane, Mum. It went over Manley’s fence. I couldn’t see because of the fog. Had to leave it.’
She sighed, shook her head. ‘Never mind, love – perhaps they’ll let you have it back if Dad telephones to them on Monday, explains it was an accident.’
‘No!’ I spoke more sharply than I’d meant to. Mum looked startled. ‘I . . . don’t think we should bother them, Mum. Kids lose planes at Manley’s all the time, they’re probably fed up to the back teeth with it.’ Truth was, I doubted what me and the watchman had been up to at Manley’s was strictly official. To alert the company might betray our secret.
Mum started grating a potato, she was making something called potato ring. ‘Your brother gave you that aeroplane,’ she murmured. ‘It was his last gift to you. I’d have thought you’d want to have it back, if only as a keepsake.’ Her voice wavered. ‘Yes, that’s it . . . a keepsake.’ She dropped the grater and the potato and burst into tears. Feeling rotten for having snapped at her, I went to give her a hug like a Robinson probably would, and we were like that when Dad walked in.
FIFTY
Balls of Fragrant Smoke
‘WHAT’S UP – HAS something happened?’ Dad nudged me aside, gripped Mum’s shoulders. ‘Tell me, Ethel.’
Mum shook her head. ‘It’s nothing, Frank. I’m being daft, that’s all.’ She pulled a hanky out of her pinny, dabbed her eyes. ‘Gordon’s lost the aeroplane Raymond gave him. It felt like another link broken – a link to him, I mean. Daft.’ She blew her nose.
Dad looked at me. ‘You didn’t take the Skymaster out in this filthy fog, son, surely?’
I nodded dumbly.
‘Why, for heaven’s sake? You can’t see your hand in front of your face out there. Didn’t you realize the thing’d vanish as soon as you launched it?’
I nodded again. ‘Yes, Dad, of course I did. But I had to go.’
He stared at me. ‘Go – go where, Gordon? And why did you have to?’
I shook my head. ‘I can’t explain, Dad. It’s . . . something I’m doing. For the war. It’s a secret.
’
‘A secret.’ He shook his head. ‘Thirteen-year-old boys aren’t allowed secrets, son. Not in this house, so you’d better tell me and your mother what you’re up to, right now.’ He led me through to the living room. Mum followed.
Well, I had to say something, didn’t I? When you’re thirteen, your parents are boss. I hadn’t signed the Official Secrets Act.
‘I’m doing it for Raymond,’ I began. ‘Was, I mean. It’s what he gave me the plane for.’
Mum made a mewing sound into her hanky.
Dad frowned at me. ‘What on earth are you talking about, lad? Can’t you see you’re upsetting your mother?’
I nodded. ‘I know, Dad, but it’s true. I had to buy the Skymaster and build it, then wait for instructions.’
‘Instructions? From who, son?’
‘I don’t know. Some chaps who don’t mess around, Raymond said.’
Mum was sobbing on the sofa. Dad looked dangerous.
‘Look, son,’ he growled, ‘if you’re making all this up, shooting some sort of line to glamourize yourself, you’d better stop this minute, because I’ll not have your mother more distressed than she is already.’
I shook my head, pacing the room. ‘You asked me, Dad. I’m not making anything up. Raymond was working for the Government.’
‘What?’
‘The Government. As an agent. He told me.’ I looked at him. ‘It’s top secret. Raymond swore me to secrecy, so you’ve got to promise not to breathe a word to anyone. Mum too.’
Dad lowered himself into an armchair, motioned for me to take the other. He spoke quietly, with an expression on his face I couldn’t read.
‘Where did you fly the plane, son?’
‘Myra Shay.’
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