by Terry Deary
The driver changed gear as the lorry reached the top of the hill and they looked down on the shattered airfield. The fires were out, but oily smoke was drifting towards them and stinging their nostrils. McCready said, ‘It’s just as well he didn’t speak to me in German. He just had to say something like, “Can I have a cup of tea?” and I wouldn’t have understood. He’d have guessed we were lying. I was nearly wetting myself.’
Henderson shrugged. ‘I don’t think he was that bothered. He’s out of the fighting now. He’ll be better fed than he ever was back in Germany, and he’ll probably live long past the end of the war.’
The driver let the lorry roll carefully down the cracked and cratered road towards the airfield.
‘That’s more than a lot of the lads at Biggin Hill will do. We can’t take a lot more raids. Mr Churchill calls us “The Few”, but the way Jerry shoots us down, we’ll soon be “The Very Few”.’
Chapter 14
Sheffield, England 1 September 1940
‘Ma,’ Sally said after Sunday tea. ‘Can I have a couple of pennies, please?’ She looked like an angel. It was the face she put on when she wanted something.
‘What for, Sal?’
‘I want to give it to a poor lady down Attercliffe Road.’
Our mum sighed. ‘You’re a kind girl, Sal. I have a couple of pennies change from the milk bill,’ she said and handed over two coppers.
‘Thanks, Ma, she’ll be really pleased.’
Sally nodded at me. ‘Ready, Watson?’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’
I grabbed my gas-mask case and followed Sally down the damp and darkening streets, as she pulled on her grey school coat and jammed her hat on her head. Her socks were falling round her ankles. She stopped to pull them up and I caught up with her. ‘What poor lady wants tuppence?’ I asked.
‘You’ll see.’
We reached the sweet shop on the corner and Sally stepped through the door just as old Mrs Haddock was pulling down the blackout blinds. The shop shelves were half empty and the wooden floor was dirty and greasy. The only sweets left inside the dusty jars were old and crusted. Battered boxes of candy cigarettes stood beside lollipops and gobstoppers that looked as though flies had been feasting on them. Fudge boxes were faded and the marshmallows were as shrivelled as Mrs Haddock’s face. Glass jars that once held chocolates were empty, and the cinder toffee should have been called spider toffee. The shop smelled of sugar and dust.
‘A packet of aniseed balls and a stick of liquorice,’ Sally said.
‘Have you got your coupons?’ the woman asked as she shuffled behind the counter.
Sally pushed a scrap of pale-brown paper across the counter and the woman counted out a dozen aniseed balls into a bag. ‘That’ll be tuppence,’ she said.
Sally reached into her pocket for the money. Mrs Haddock opened the till. ‘I’ll be glad to get to the bank when it opens tomorrow,’ she said in her creaking voice. ‘I don’t like keeping all of Saturday and Sunday’s takings in the shop.’
‘You should get a safe,’ Sally said.
‘I’ve got one,’ the woman said. ‘But I didn’t have time to put the money away after that air-raid warning on Monday.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘You were a pound short when you got back.’
‘How did you know?’
‘I guessed,’ I muttered.
‘Not only that, but I went to put my money away in the safe that night and the safe door was all scratched. It looked like someone had been trying to get in. There’s some villains about. Can you imagine it? Robbed by your own neighbours.’
‘How do you know it’s your neighbours?’ Sally asked.
‘I don’t mean me next-door neighbours. But it’s someone that comes in the shop, regular like, and knows their way around. It could be you,’ she snapped.
‘We were in the shelter on Stanhope Street,’ I said.
‘Mebbe,’ the woman said.
I looked around the cobwebbed shop that was lit by a dim lightbulb. ‘You can’t have that much in the safe,’ I said clumsily.
‘Can’t I? Can’t I?’ she screeched. ‘Are you calling me a pauper? Are you? Think I’m only fit for the workhouse, do you? Do you?’ She picked up a broom and shook it at me.
Sally said, ‘Sorry, Mrs Haddock, he’s a bit thick,’ before she dragged me into a corner and hissed, ‘She makes a fortune. She gets chocolate on the black market and sells it from under the counter. There’s people desperate to get their chops around some chocolate. No coupons but twice the usual price.’
‘But this scruffy shop –’
‘She keeps it scruffy so the trading inspectors don’t come snooping. But half of Sheffield knows she sells chocolate. It’s like she says, someone knows she’ll have a safe full of money.’
‘We should tell the police. I mean, the black market’s wicked –’
‘Aw, Billy Brainless! If Mrs Haddock stops selling chocolate, you’ll be the most hated boy in Sheffield.’
‘But how do you know all this?’ I hissed.
‘Everybody knows,’ she said. ‘All the girls in school know.’
It was always like that. Girls just know things boys don’t. I never understood how.
‘Where’s the tuppence for them sweets? I haven’t forgotten. I may be old, but I’m not potty yet.’
‘There you go, Mrs Haddock,’ my sister said. She handed over the money and walked out of the door into the drizzly evening.
I marched after her. ‘Sally! You said you wanted money to give to an old lady!’ I cried as she popped a sweet into her mouth.
‘Mrs Haddock’s an old lady, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘And I gave her the two pence, didn’t I?’
‘I know, but –’
‘So I was telling the truth, wasn’t I?’
‘Maybe, but –’
‘So, let’s go and do some detective work, and if you’re really good, I may give you an aniseed ball,’ she promised, popping the brown paper bag into her gas-mask box.
Chapter 15
Sally refused to tell me where she was going, only that she knew where there was a phone we could use.
Eventually, we reached the end of Stanhope Street, where everything was black. ‘The bomb shelter?’ I laughed. ‘There’s no phone in the bomb shelter.’
Sally smiled her evil little tight-lipped smile. ‘That’s correct, Paula Dane.’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘Paula, Paula, Paula,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Where is this phone?’ I demanded.
Sally nodded to a brick building behind the shelter. It had a wall of sandbags piled up in front of the door to protect it from bomb blast and a thick roof of concrete slabs. I guess it was about the size of our school classroom.
‘The wardens’ post? Mr Crane won’t let us use the wardens’ telephone.’
‘He will. Remember, we’re going to help him – we’re going to be his runners when the bombing starts, so he’ll want to help us. You’ll see,’ Sally said and knocked on the door.
‘Who’s there? Friend or foe?’ called Warden Crane.
‘Sally and Billy Thomas.’
‘Hang on … I’ll turn out the light before I open the door –’
The door opened and the warden squinted into the darkness. ‘Good evening, Warden Crane,’ Sally said in her Sunday school voice.
‘I had to turn out the light. If I’d left it on, I’d have to fine myself five shillings. Heh! Come in, come in.’
We stepped through the door and it closed behind us. The lights snapped on and we looked around the room. Hand pumps for fires hung from the walls and there were benches all around the sides. At the far end, there were a couple of beds and a man in a khaki uniform was toasting bread in front of an electric fire.
Warden Crane led the way into the room. ‘Take a seat. This is Sergeant Proctor from the Home Guard. He often pops in here with t
he news.’
The Home Guard man was about thirty years old – young enough to be in the army. But when he turned to say hello, we saw he wore spectacles as thick as jamjar bottoms. He was too short-sighted to fire a gun. ‘Toast, anyone?’ he asked.
He was spreading the bread with margarine. If we couldn’t get any butter on the ration, Ma refused to buy that disgusting white grease. ‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘You’re all right, Mr Proctor, I’ve got some sweets,’ Sally said. ‘So, what news have you brought?’
‘Well, it’s not a secret – Mr Churchill was on the radio tonight,’ the sergeant said. ‘He said our bombers were flying to Germany right now and dropping bombs on Berlin. But he warned us that Mr Hitler will be angry. We all have to expect attacks any day or any night from now on.’
‘“Cry ‘Havoc’, and let slip the dogs of war!”’ Warden Crane cried suddenly.
‘Did Mr Churchill say that?’ I asked.
‘No – William Shakespeare.’
‘The one that’s dead?’ Sally asked.
‘The very same,’ Warden Crane nodded. ‘Sheffield will be attacked soon.’
‘And then you’ll need us as runners,’ Sally said.
‘I think so,’ he agreed.
‘So will we be air-raid wardens?’ Sally said slowly, looking as crafty as a dog with a sausage in its sights.
‘You could say that.’
‘So can we use the wardens’ telephone, then?’
Crane looked at the Home Guard sergeant. ‘Mr Proctor and I were just saying how we needed to get down to the Flying Horse on Tinsley Street –’
‘The pub? You’re going for a drink? I thought you were on duty,’ I said.
The warden picked up his black helmet. ‘We have had reports that the pub has holes in its blackout curtains. We need to check.’
Sergeant Proctor smirked. ‘From the inside.’
Warden Crane spread his large hands. ‘We will have to go inside to warn the landlord. If he offers us refreshment while we’re there, it would be rude not to accept.’ He raised an arm as if he were on stage. Our headmaster did that when he spoke at the school assembly. ‘“The wine cup is the little silver well, where truth, if truth there be, doth dwell.”’
The sergeant picked up his khaki helmet and an old Lee Enfield rifle – the sort they used in the last war, our dad said. ‘So you kids can answer the telephone if it rings.’
‘What should we say?’ I asked, feeling my heart suddenly start to beat fast.
‘We’ll manage,’ Sally said quickly. She turned to the two men. ‘You go and enjoy your booze. We’ll be fine.’
‘You will,’ the warden agreed. ‘This is still a phoney war – nothing much is going to happen.’
‘The phoney war ended tonight,’ Sergeant Proctor reminded him. ‘When our RAF lads dropped bombs on Germany.’
‘Maybe,’ Crane agreed. The men went to the door with the warden sighing, ‘“Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness.”’ He looked back at us. ‘Put out the light … and then put on the light … once we’re gone.’
A minute later, my sister and I were sitting at the wardens’ table clutching the phone. ‘Ready, Dr Watson?’ Sally asked.
‘Ready,’ I said.
It took Firbeck a while to track down our dad. We had to wait at least ten minutes for the telephone operator to find him. I was pleased we weren’t paying the phone bill.
‘Is everything all right?’ Dad asked, picking up the phone at last. ‘What’s happened? Is your mum all right?’
‘Yes, everything at home’s fine. Sally and me just wanted to ask you about police work,’ I said.
‘For a school project,’ Sally shouted. I had the earpiece to my ear and Sally pressed her ear against it.
‘It’s a sort of story,’ I said. ‘A burglar that goes around in the blackout. There are two detectives trying to catch the thief –’
‘Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson,’ Sally put in. She was really getting on my nerves.
‘We want to make it real,’ I explained. ‘What would the police do if there was a burglar on the loose?’
Dad spoke slowly as he thought it through. ‘You need to find a suspect. I mean, is there anyone in desperate need of money? Desperate enough to stay out on the streets when there could be bombs falling any minute… Well, they’re either desperate or daft.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said, making a note on a scrap of paper beside the telephone. ‘What else?’
‘Opportunity,’ he said. ‘Who has the chance to do the burglaries?’
‘Anyone,’ I said. ‘People run for the shelters and leave their doors open. It would only take a few moments to pop into a house and steal some cash that’s lying around.’
‘Hmm! I’m not so sure about that. You’d be looking for someone in the shelters who’s very chatty – talks to people about their money. You know the sort of thing – the thief will say, “Eeeeh, I’ve left my housekeeping on the table. I was counting it. I usually put it away at the back of the kitchen drawer. Do you have a safe place, Mrs Goodbody?” And they get the victim – Mrs Goodbody – to tell them.’
‘So we go to the shelters and listen to people talking?’ Sally asked.
‘Who goes to the shelters?’ Dad asked.
‘The detectives in my story – Sherlock and Sexton,’ I said.
‘Right – yes, that’s a good start. Of course, once you’ve got a suspect, you need to check they have an alibi,’ Dad went on. ‘Where was the suspect at the time of the crime? Of course, if they don’t have a good alibi, it doesn’t mean they’re guilty. But if they do have an alibi, you can cross them off the list.’
‘But how do you prove it?’ I asked.
‘Tricky,’ Dad said. ‘The police can take their fingerprints and see if there are prints at the scene of the crime to match. But that’s no use if the thief wears gloves.’
‘But Sherlock and Sexton can’t do fingerprints,’ I moaned.
‘Then they’ll have to call in the police. See? These detectives are all very well in stories, but not in real life. Anyway, that’s what’s wrong with your story,’ Dad added.
‘What?’ Sally asked.
‘In real life, you would call in the police as soon as you were robbed,’ he explained.
‘Not for a pound,’ I argued.
‘A pound?’
‘If you lost a pound, you wouldn’t call in the police – you would just moan a bit,’ Sally told him.
‘And if it’s just a pound, you may think you’ve dropped it in the street,’ I said, remembering Mum’s lost pound.
‘No, no, no!’ Dad laughed. ‘Your story is getting daft now. We said the thief had to be desperate to risk his life when there are bombers on the way. Nobody risks their life for a quid. Ten pounds maybe. But not a one-pound note.’
‘But what if they went around and took one pound from ten different houses?’ I asked.
The line went quiet apart from a hum and a crackle. At last Dad spoke. ‘That would be a clever thief,’ he said. ‘Oh, very clever. Steal ten pounds from Mrs Smith or Jones and they’d make a fuss, call in the police and catch you. But steal one pound from ten houses –’
‘You still end up with ten pounds, but nobody would call in the police,’ I put in.
‘Yes, that’s what a clever thief would do. Do you have many air-raid warnings?’
‘About one a week, but the bombers never come.’
‘Yet,’ Dad said. ‘One day they will and then our burglar could catch it. Of course – here’s an idea for your story – the clever burglar might know the air raid is a false alarm!’
‘How?’ Sally asked.
‘I don’t know, but there may be some way you can call the Home Guard, say there are enemy bombers on the way and get them to sound the sirens. Everyone will rush to the shelters, but you know it’s safe to wander the streets because you gave the false alarm.’
‘I’ll see if that’s possible,’ I said and m
ade a note of that, too.
‘If the burglar’s that clever,’ Sally said, tugging the telephone from my hand, ‘our detectives will never catch them.’
‘Ah, that’s possible. Not every crime is solved, you know,’ Dad admitted. ‘So long as they don’t get greedy and try to steal too much – that’s how a lot of thieves get caught. Greed. But your thief may not be greedy.’
‘Trying to rob a safe is greedy,’ I said.
‘That’s big-time crime,’ Dad said. ‘A different class of villain. They play for big money and they fight dirty. Even Sherlock would have to watch out then.’
‘Watch out?’ Sally said.
‘Watch out for knives and coshes and even guns… Those Home Guards have a lot of guns lying around. The sort of thief that would rob a safe would use a gun to protect his cash. Sherlock would end up with a hole in his head. No, make your story about a clever criminal who steals the odd pound here and there.’
‘But we won’t catch him at it!’ Sally groaned.
‘Then your detectives would have to set a trap – that’s what I’d do. Get some money and put a secret mark on it. Make sure everybody knows where it is and the next time there’s an air raid, you can check who’s spending the marked notes.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I said.
We chatted a little longer about his work at Firbeck and the fighter planes that flew from there. Sally promised to show him the school project when he came home in December and we put the phone down.
‘We don’t have a school project,’ I told her.
‘Then you’ll have to write it, Billy, won’t you?’
I really hoped this Sherlock would end up with that hole in the head.
Chapter 16
Biggin Hill airfield, Kent, England 2 September 1940
The spy sat at a table in the wing commander’s office at Biggin Hill. The Special Operations officer from London looked at him. ‘You did a good job last night, sending back a fake message.’
The spy shrugged. ‘If I help you, then you let me live.’
The British officer smiled. ‘We have lots of work for you, but there’s one thing you can tell us now.’