Put Out the Light

by Terry Deary

  Chapter 21

  Sheffield, England 16 October 1940

  We met Mr Crane on the corner of Whitworth Lane. ‘Need any runners, Mr Crane?’ I asked.

  ‘I need some extra eyes,’ he said.

  ‘Mum cooked a sheep’s head last month,’ I said. ‘I could have saved you the eyes if I’d known you wanted some.’

  ‘I mean,’ he said in his voice as rich as cream, ‘I need eyes in sensible heads to look out for people breaking the blackout rules. Mr Jobling from District 72 is sick, so I have to cover his streets as well. We can’t afford to let one chink of light out tonight.’

  ‘Because there’s a bomber’s moon,’ Sally put in.

  ‘Indeed, my child. I have a feeling in my bones there will be a raid,’ he said.

  ‘I had the same feeling,’ Sally nodded. ‘Didn’t I, Billy?’

  ‘Tell us which streets to go to, and we’ll do them for you,’ I said.

  The warden pulled out a map and showed us the area he wanted us to cover. ‘Pay particular attention to the back alleys,’ he warned us. ‘People are careful about the front rooms because the neighbours can see the light and warn one another. But they get careless about the kitchens at the back. They think the back wall hides the light.’

  ‘It does,’ Sally said. ‘Especially when you’re little like me and can’t see over the wall.’

  ‘A German bomber can see over the back wall,’ the warden reminded us. ‘Don’t be afraid to open back gates to check.’

  ‘And if the siren sounds?’ I asked.

  ‘Head for the nearest shelter. See – it’ll be here,’ he said and pointed to the map.

  ‘What if the bombers come before we get there?’

  ‘Stay away from buildings. Find an open space and lie flat on the ground. The blast should pass over you.’

  ‘What if a bomb lands on me head?’ Sally squeaked.

  ‘You won’t know much about it,’ the man chuckled.

  ‘If you’re scared, I’ll help Mr Crane by myself,’ I jeered.

  ‘I’m not scared, Billy Thomas. I’m just checking what to do. Let’s go.’

  We set off down the road for District 72. The last trams were running, packed with people on their way home from work. There were a few cars on the road driven by posh people who had enough petrol coupons. They had masks over their headlights with just a small slit to let out light to see where they were going. But they couldn’t see people crossing the roads, and people couldn’t see them.

  Just the week before, Mum had told us about a woman who was knocked over and killed in the blackout. ‘Daft ha’porth was wearing a black coat!’ she had sighed. ‘They tell you to wear something white – a scarf or something – and men to let their shirt tails out of their trousers. You can’t blame the drivers.’

  I kept Sally on the pavement as much as I could and looked extra carefully when we had to cross the road. The pig-bins with stale food stank, so we knew when we were near a street corner.

  There weren’t many people on the streets once the trams and buses had stopped running. Dogs trotted around in packs of three or four. Some growled at us. Sally growled back and they ran off. Cats watched from safe perches on the top of back yard walls. Their eyes glowed green like traffic lights. We entered the moon-washed alley behind Bakery Lane.

  ‘I think that’s a light,’ Sally said.

  I lifted the latch and pushed the door that led into the alley. To the right was the shed that served as a toilet. The yard was cluttered with an old bicycle, a dustbin, a pig pail full of rotting food scraps, a few flower pots and a Morrison shelter that was waiting to be taken into the house and assembled. That was what I tripped over, sending some of the steel pieces clattering onto the concrete.

  ‘Who’s there?’ cried a frightened voice behind me. I spun round and Sally clung to my arm. Someone was in the toilet hut. ‘Who’s there, I said.’

  ‘Nobody,’ Sally answered.

  ‘Yes, there is. I warn you, I have the toilet chain in my hand. I’ll thrash you with it if you don’t get out of my yard.’

  ‘You’ll not be able to flush the toilet then,’ Sally called.

  ‘I’ll flush the toilet first and come after you next. Just wait till I pull me pants up.’

  It sounded like it was an old man. Sally and I began to tiptoe towards the back gate. Then we heard a sound that made us freeze. The man pulled the chain and the toilet flushed. We heard the chain being unfastened from the toilet cistern and the door was thrown open. The man had a fierce grey moustache the size of a yard brush, and he looked as scared as us.

  ‘Aaargh!’ he cried when he saw us.

  ‘Aaargh!’ Sally and I cried and backed up against the old bike.

  ‘I said I’d thrash you – and I’ve got a dog in the house. A big German Shepherd dog.’

  ‘They call them Alsatians now, mister,’ Sally said.

  ‘Never mind the name,’ the old man shouted. ‘His teeth are just as sharp whatever you call him.’

  ‘What do you call him?’ I asked.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘His name? We had a dog called Goofy, like in the Mickey Mouse films at the Tivoli.’

  ‘Erm … I, er … I call him … er … Rover,’ the man said. ‘I call him Rover.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ Sally said.

  ‘You’ll believe me when he sinks his choppers into your skinny little backside,’ the man argued. ‘I keep him to guard against burglars like you.’

  ‘We’re not burglars, we’re air-raid wardens,’ Sally said.

  ‘There’s been a lot of robberies when the air-raid siren sounds,’ the man said.

  ‘We know,’ Sally said.

  ‘And you look a bit young to be wardens. Anyway, I know our warden – Mr Jobling. I went to school with him and his brother.’

  ‘Mr Jobling’s sick,’ I said. ‘We’re helping Mr Crane from the Attercliffe district.’

  ‘A likely story. I’m going to call the police,’ he said and edged his way towards his back door.

  ‘Have you got a telephone?’ Sally asked.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ the man said proudly. ‘The only one in the street.’ The chain glinted in the light of the moon as he made his way towards the kitchen door.

  Sally sensed the man’s fear and stepped forward boldly. ‘Good! Go on. Call the police. And while you’re on, give yourself up.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Showing a light after blackout,’ she said and pointed to the open kitchen door. ‘If you report us, then we’ll report you.’

  ‘Awwww!’ the man moaned. ‘I only went to the toilet. I was only going to be a minute.’

  I guessed what Mr Crane would have said if he’d been there, and I said it. ‘It only takes a minute for a German bomber to fly over and see it.’

  ‘What German bomber?’ The old man asked and squinted up into the moonlight.

  At that moment the low wail of the siren began. ‘That German bomber!’ Sally cried.

  ‘Ohhhh! I wish I had that shelter built,’ the old man groaned.

  ‘You’ll have to get to the public shelter.’

  ‘I’m going,’ the man said. He reached behind the kitchen door to grab an overcoat, pulled it on and slammed the door behind him.

  Over the noise of the siren, we could hear people shouting all the way down the street. Shoes clattered down the lane, dogs barked with the sudden excitement.

  ‘We have to get to the wardens’ post,’ I said. ‘Call Dad. See if it really is a raid. Hurry. We’re a long way from Stanhope Street.’

  The moon shone on Sally’s grin. ‘We don’t need to go anywhere. You forgot, Dr Watson, there’s a telephone just inside this house.’

  Don’t you just hate it when someone is right all the time?

  Chapter 22

  We pushed open the kitchen door. The old man’s house smelled of stale food and musty carpets. He’d left the light on and we blinked in the glare.

  ‘There’s no dog,�
� Sally said.

  ‘That’s right, Sherlock. I knew there wouldn’t be.’

  The telephone was in the hall. I picked it up and dialled 100.

  ‘Operator here. How may I help you?’

  I asked to be put through to Firbeck air base and waited as the connections clicked and buzzed.

  ‘Firbeck!’ a bored woman’s voice said on the other end of the line.

  ‘Can I speak to Sergeant Eric Thomas in the military police?’ I asked.

  ‘Who are you?’ the voice asked. ‘He’s probably on patrol around the fence. Is it urgent?’

  ‘That depends,’ I said. ‘I’m his son. I live in Sheffield. The air-raid siren’s just gone off,’ I explained and held out the telephone so she could hear it. ‘Dad said to call when it went off to find out if there really is a raid.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ah … ah …’

  Sally had been doing her usual listening trick and snatched the receiver from me. ‘Our mum is very sick. The doctor says if we move her, it could kill her. We only want to get her into a shelter if we really, really have to.’

  ‘Sick? What’s wrong with her?’

  Sally looked blank for a moment. I took the phone back. ‘Tuberculosis,’ I lied. ‘She’s coughing blood all over the place.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that, son. But don’t worry, you can let your mum stay where she is. If there was a raid, our Hurricanes would have been up in the air ten minutes before your siren sounded. Tell your mum it’s another false alarm.’

  ‘Thank you, I will,’ I said.

  ‘And give her my best wishes,’ the woman said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And I’ll let Sergeant Thomas know his wife’s very sick, could even be dying if she’s coughing blood, poor love.’

  ‘No!’ Sally and I cried together. ‘I mean, Mum doesn’t want Dad to worry – she’s been bad like this before. So long as she rests, she’ll be fine,’ I said.

  ‘If you’re sure –’

  ‘Very, very sure,’ I said.

  ‘Then you take care. And if you want to give me your number, I can give you a call if there ever is a real raid?’

  ‘No! We’ll phone you – we don’t want Mum upset by the telephone ringing. We don’t get many calls – she’ll think it’s bad news about Dad –’

  Sally snatched the telephone. ‘Just one ring could kill her!’ she said and gave a little sob.

  ‘If you’re sure …’ the woman repeated.

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Sally snivelled. ‘Thank you, and God bless,’ she added and put down the receiver.

  ‘Poor Mum,’ I said. ‘Are you going to mop up the blood or do I have to do it as usual?’

  ‘Very funny, Dr Watson,’ she snapped, ‘but we have a job to do. Let’s get back to Attercliffe and see who’s on the streets when they should be in the shelter.’

  We hurried back through the kitchen and out of the yard into the alley. The streets were silent again. Even the siren had stopped. A chill wind from the hills whistled through the electricity wires and blew dust around the street corners into our faces.

  ‘Stay in the shadows and make a note of who’s walking about,’ I told Sally.

  ‘How do I make a note?’ she asked.

  ‘I brought a paper and pencil from school specially,’ I reminded her. ‘It’s in your gas-mask case.’

  ‘Yes, but if I’m in the shadows, how do I make a note?’

  My sister had to be the most awkward girl in Yorkshire. ‘You can make a note in your head, Sherlock. We’ll write a list when we get back home.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘As soon as the all clear sounds.’

  ‘Where do we start?’ she asked.

  ‘Let’s go to the places the burglar’s been before. You take Jubilee Terrace and I’ll watch Mrs Haddock’s sweet shop. If he’s got away with it once, he might try again.’

  Sally nodded and we headed back towards the familiar streets near our home. Mrs Haddock’s corner shop was at the end of a parade, so I had plenty of shop doorways to choose from. I left Sally to walk on to Mrs Grimley’s lane and backed into the deep doorway of the ironmonger’s shop, which was a few doors down from the sweet shop.

  A dog scared the life out of me when it came sniffing at my shoes. ‘Push off,’ I hissed. Luckily, it wagged its tail and ran away.

  In the silence, I could hear the distant rumble from the steelworks. Then there was the rattle of a car engine. I pressed my back against the shop door so its weak headlights didn’t catch me. When it reached the corner, it stopped. The car door opened and a man stepped out. He wore a heavy overcoat and a hat with a wide brim that hid his face. He looked around as if he was afraid of being seen, then he disappeared to the far side of his car and I heard the door open. The man pulled out a heavy box. He carried it to the sweet shop and put it on the ground, then he tapped on the window. Soon after, the shop door swung open. There were a few muffled words and then he vanished inside.

  I felt as if I’d been holding my breath for five minutes. I kept my eyes on the shop door and stepped out into the street. I ran up and looked at the front of the car. It was a Lanchester fourteen – a six-cylinder model with overhead valves and water-cooled engine. I could write down the notes later. But there was something about it that made me think I’d seen it before. I looked at the number plate and tried to keep it in my head: CU 3127.

  That’s when I heard the sweet shop door open again. I threw myself into the doorway of the baker’s next door. But now that dog was back and heading straight for me. I started to panic, but at the last moment it smelled the sweet shop and sat on the pavement, looking up at Mrs Haddock.

  If the man was the burglar, he’d most likely throw me in front of the car, run me over and drive on. That’s what I’d do if I was him. I’d look just like another blackout road accident. I suddenly found I needed the toilet. I heard him speaking quietly and then he stepped into the moonlight and raised his hat politely. I saw his face clearly for a moment. And that’s when it all came together – the car, the voice and the face.

  ‘Goodnight, Mrs Haddock. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can get more supplies,’ he said. ‘It’s always a pleasure doing business with you, madam.’

  ‘It would be when you charge three times the price I paid before the war.’

  ‘Supply and demand, madam. It’s something they call supply and demand. If you don’t want the chocolate, I’ll sell it to someone who does. Maybe someone who’ll pay me more again!’ he chuckled.

  The man was doing a black-market deal with the sweet-shop owner. But he wasn’t a dealer in sweets … well, not usually. He was a teacher. He was my teacher – Mr Cutter. I’d once seen him drive by in that car. I asked Mum how a teacher could afford a £350 car. Now I knew.

  Chapter 23

  My history teacher walked around the front of the car so he didn’t pass my useless hiding place. He started the engine and drove off.

  Mrs Haddock watched him go down the street. ‘“Supply and demand, madam”,’ she spat. ‘Stuck up twerp.’ Then she walked back into her shop.

  I hung around. There was still a chance the burglar would try again – he wouldn’t know Mrs Haddock was staying late to take in her fresh supplies. But the all-clear siren sounded and the streets began to fill with people going home from the shelters, grumbling about the latest false alarm.

  ‘I’m staying in the house next time,’ a young woman complained.

  ‘And you can be sure that’ll be the one that’s not a false alarm,’ her friend said.

  Sally was home before me, and I reached the front door at the same time as Mum. ‘You’re safe then. You found a shelter in time?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I lied.

  ‘Another false alarm. I’m wondering if it’s worth dashing to the shelter. May as well stay at home nice and warm when the next alarm goes off.’

  ‘And you can be sure that’ll be the one that’s not a false alarm,’ I said wisely.r />
  She gave me an odd sort of look and offered to make us a cup of cocoa while I poked at the dusty coal fire and tried to get warm again.

  While Mum went into the kitchen to make the cocoa, I told Sally about seeing Mr Cutter at the shop. ‘Do you think I should report them?’ I asked.

  ‘No point. Everybody does a bit of black-market dealing. There was a fire down at a warehouse the other week and Mrs Gibson’s husband is a firefighter. He rescued two dozen tins of peaches. She’s been selling them a shilling a can.’

  ‘That’s against the law,’ I said.

  Sally sniffed. ‘You didn’t seem to mind when you scoffed them last Sunday.’

  I shook my head. Sally seemed to know more about things that went on in the city than I ever did. ‘So what did you see, Sherlock?’ I asked.

  ‘Something very interesting,’ my sister told me. She lowered her voice so Mum couldn’t hear us. ‘Just as I turned into the lane, I saw a woman come out of the house next to Mrs Grimley’s. She had a scarf over her head and it was dark, of course, but she looked like she was up to no good. She was weird. A huge nose sticking out the front of her headscarf.’

  ‘Weird?’

  ‘Her dress went right down to her ankles, and she was really tall, for a woman.’

  ‘A headscarf?’

  ‘Yes, except more like a hood.’

  ‘It wasn’t a woman. It was a man in a hood,’ I said.

  ‘Ha!’ Sally snorted. ‘What man is going to walk around Sheffield in a dress?’

  ‘He calls it a cassock,’ I said. ‘You saw the vicar, with his cowl up.’

  Sally nodded slowly. ‘Well done, Dr Watson.’

  ‘Did he see you?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course not. I was in the shadows just like we agreed. Anyway, I went down to Mrs Grimley’s back gate, into her yard, and sat in the toilet.’

  ‘You did what?’

  ‘It’s all right. It’s really clean. She keeps it nice and she has real toilet paper –’

  ‘Yes, but why the toilet?’ I hissed.

  ‘Because it’s warm, of course. And you can look straight out to her back door if you leave the door open a crack. You can even sit on the toilet and be comfy –’